The Other Table
by SekritOMG
Summary: So many boys in 11th grade at South Park High School are gay that an academic comes to town, looking for answers. Kyle agrees to help him. Slash. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Token!"

Token blanched when he heard his name being called. He looked over to the table where his four friends were sitting, and shuffled over while balancing his lunch tray in his hands. "Hey, guys," he said warily, making sure to glance especially intensely at Stan, who had called him over.

"Hi Token," Cartman said with a bored tone, picking at a cafeteria chicken breast with his fingers.

"Hey dude," Stan repeated, gesturing to the chair next to him, which was empty. "Have a seat."

"Um." Token looked like he wanted to put his tray down, but something was stopping him. "This is really awkward," he began. His friends at the table looked up at him with blank stares, knowing exactly where this was going.

"Oh, fuck me, Token," Cartman said, wiping his hands off on his pants. "Don't tell me you're a fag now, too."

"Well, ah." Token shifted uncomfortably, trying very hard not to sit down. "I, um, wouldn't say that. But, well, yeah. I'm going to sit at the other table."

"The other table!" gasped a boy with a filthy mess of tangled blond hair, which looked almost gray from lack of attention. "Oh, Jesus!"

"It's okay, Tweek," Stan said calmly. "There's nothing wrong with the other table."

"Are you blind, Stan?" Cartman asked, going back to his chicken. "It may have escaped your lovey-dovey commie-hippie worldview, but they're all gay over there."

"Yeah, but," Stan started, but someone interrupted him.

"Bye Token," Clyde interjected. "It's been cool, man."

"We'll miss you," Stan added.

"Thanks." Token barely smiled, and shuffled off again to sit down at the table on the opposite side of the room. The four seated boys looked at each other. None of them had anything left to say on this subject for the moment.

A shriek pierced the silence.

"Oh, god!" Tweek cried. "Another one! They got another one! What if it happens to me?"

"Maybe it won't," Stan said flatly.

"Ah! Oh, lord. My dad said if I turn gay, he'll sell me into white slavery!"

"At least you'll enjoy it."

"Be quiet, Cartman." Stan was always trying to be reassuring, even if he knew there was nothing to be said. "Maybe you won't turn gay, Tweek."

"I'm sure as hell not turning gay," Clyde asserted, licking the lid of his pudding cup.

"Me neither," Cartman added. "I'm all man. Sometimes I go up to chicks and I'm like, hey, bitches! Do you want me to take you down to the river and fuck your brains out? And they say—" Cartman cleared his throat and continued in a falsetto. "—'Oh, please, Eric, fuck us, show us the ways of _amore_." Cartman pronounced this word 'ahm-ohree.'

"Dude," Clyde said. "That's not a word."

"Shut up, hippie," Cartman scoffed. "I'll tell you what's a word."

"Shut up your fat face, Cartman." Stan looked down at his lunch, which no longer looked appetizing after watching the asshole rip off bits of skin and eat them with his hands.

"I'm not fat," Cartman replied. "I'm just seriously pissed off at your being a little bitch."

"I think you're both little bitches," Clyde added.

"Yeah!" Tweek cried, pulling at his hair with the fork that was suddenly and inexplicably tangled up in the mess on his head. "You're freaking me out!"

"I'm too ugly to get gay," Clyde mused, apparently still interested in that topic.

"Oh, fuck me, you guys," Stan said, finally pushing his tray as far away as he could without knocking over Clyde's Yoo-Hoo. "This shit's not normal. Who's to say what's going to happen?"

"You said I wouldn't!" Tweek's left eye began to twitch massively. "My father would kill me. Once I asked him to make me a mocha and he made me sit in the back of a van wearing a tutu and he made me sit in there with a homeless man who smelled like pee."

"That didn't really happen."

"It did, Stan! I remember like it was yesterday! It was yesterday! Omigod omigod." Tweek paused. "I asked for a mocha yesterday. Maybe I'm gay now! Oh my god, I'm gay, you guys! Holy shit! I can't do this!"

"Fag," Cartman said cheerfully, smearing some butter on his chicken.

"Ugh, Tweek," Stan said, exasperated. "Do you _want_ to screw a dude?" Tweek shook his head slowly.

"I can't even hold my own cock while I pee. That's apparently why I peed on the floor last week. Ohhhh, they were not happy about that, no no no."

"You pee on the floor because you're a fucking skeazed-out meth addict, Tweek." Cartman was now licking butter off of his fingers.

"Lunch is worse without Token," Clyde said morosely, eyeing Cartman's buttered chicken.

The boys ate in silence for a few minutes — all except for Stan, who generally lost his appetite by this point in a meal.

"Hey," Stan said, suddenly realizing a certain absence. "Where's Kenny?"

"Maybe he's at the other table," Clyde guessed.

"The little buttfucker's dead," Cartman said lazily, tearing into a chicken leg. "What's new?"

"Actually," Tweek interjected, the spoon in his hand clanking noisily on the table. "I hear he offed himself."

"No way," said Stan.

"Yes way," Tweek insisted. "He stuck his head in an oven! I bet it baked to a crisp! Oh, Jesus, can you imagine it? It's so freaking … ah!" Tweek dropped his spoon on the floor, and covered his eyes with his hands.

"Kenny's not the type to kill himself." Stan looked over at Cartman for confirmation.

"No, I bet the little asslicker did it."

"He would not!" Stan protested.

"Did too," Cartman insisted.

"That's what I hear," said Tweek, who was now pushing the spoon on the floor back and forth between his feet; his right shoe was missing and one of his toes was sticking out of his holey sock.

"All you hear are the voices in your head," Clyde scoffed.

"I'm serious, man!"

"Shut up, Tweek."

"You shut up, Cartman," Stan said definitively, getting up from the table.

"Where are you going?" Clyde asked.

"I'm going to ask Kyle what happened to Kenny."

"Oh god!" Tweek said. "They'll give you gay, Stan, Jesus!"

"Shut up, Tweek. You can't _catch_ gay. You have to _decide_ to be gay."

"You _know_ that's not how it is, fat ass," Stan said derisively. He wasn't afraid of his best friend, and he wasn't afraid of the other table. As he approached, the entire group of laughing boys stopped, and looked at Stan. "Hey guys," Stan said coolly.

"Hiya, Stan!" Butters said cheerfully, waving.

"Hi Butters," Stan replied dully. He looked at Kyle, who was sitting with Craig on one side of him, and the nervous-looking Token on the other side. "Kyle, did Kenny kill himself?"

"What?" Kyle asked, distracted. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, he did. Why?"

"I dunno," Stan said lamely. "It's just not, very … well, it's not very Kenny."

"You know Kenny," Kyle said calmly. "He'll probably be back tomorrow." A few of the guys at the table gave each other confused looks.

"But killing yourself is really serious, fellas," Butters said genuinely.

"That's right, Butters. Killing yourself is serious."

"But not for Kenny!" Kyle was digging around in his pocket now.

"He's our friend, Kyle."

"Yeah, and we'll see him tomorrow."

"Don't you get what's wrong here?"

"Not really." Kyle shrugged. Craig gave Stan the finger.

"Oh, ha, Craig," Stan said without enthusiasm. Then, returning to Kyle, he said, "Maybe something's wrong with him. Maybe he's in pain."

"But he'll be back!"

"Ugh, Kyle." As Stan walked back to his table, he heard the chatter resume behind him. Stan didn't know if they were discussing him or what, but he figured he just didn't care.

XXX

"He is such a dick," Craig said sympathetically, rubbing Kyle's shoulder.

"Stop it, Craig," Kyle replied, pushing Craig's hand away. "I don't want to do this again."

"Do what again?" Token asked, completely lost.

"You don't know?" Butters asked, index fingers pushed together in a rather delicate-seeming way.

"Know _what_?" Token asked.

"You guys don't know over there?" asked a boy with a nausea-inducing faux-French accent from the other side of the table.

"Other where? At the other table?"

"I don't think—" Kyle began, shuffling his feet nervously under his chair.

"Kyle's in love with Stan!" Butters burst out, hardly able to contain himself. "I was sure you guys would know, it's about the most obvious thing."

"It's not," Kyle protested, pushing some potatoes around his plate.

"Oh, please," came that voice again.

"Shut it, Christophe," Craig nastily, shooting the other boy his middle finger.

"Do not call me that!" the angry boy shouted. "That name is fucking shit and so are you."

"Are you guys always like this?" Token asked, suddenly feeling even less confident and sure of his decision.

"Sure," came a muffle reply, as Butters was apparently now sucking on a lollipop.

"Basically," Christophe offered, "if you think sitting at this table is going to make life into less of a fucking shit parade, you have another thing coming."

"I like it here," Butters said casually.

"What the hell are you kids talking about?" Thomas asked from the other side of the table.

"I honestly have no idea," Token confessed. Then, softer, and to himself: "Maybe this was a bad idea."

"Stan is being a bitch again," Craig said, not really trying to make sure diners at other tables didn't hear this.

"No, he's not," Kyle said sadly, crumpling up his napkin and throwing it on his plate. "I have to go now." Kyle stood up and collected his tray. He scrambled away from the table as quickly as his legs could carry him.

XXX

That afternoon, Stan was ambling through the halls of South Park High School. Almost everyone he walked by said hello to him — it was an incredibly small school, with a fairly close-knit student body. The student population was something like 100 kids. Maybe less. Stan never counted. All he knew was that they all liked him.

Still, Stan wasn't looking for just anyone to talk to — he was looking for his best friend. He spied the redheaded boy kneeling by his locker with a black backpack by his jacket, which was also down there on the floor.

"Hey," he said warmly.

"Hi, Stanley," Kyle said glumly, shoving books in his backpack like there was no tomorrow. Stan still felt weird when Kyle called him by his full name. Only his mother called him that. Kyle had started doing this shortly after he told Stan he was a homosexual. It was five years later, and he tried not to vomit when Kyle said it, primarily because it reminded him of his mother. And his ridiculous, feckless retard of a father. And, well, it just caught his attention in a bad way. He couldn't describe it. All he knew was that Kyle never called him Stan anymore. But if Stan puked every time Kyle called him 'Stanley,' he would never keep anything down.

"Aren't you late for practice?"

"Ah, no," Stan said. "It's been postponed until 5."

"Great." Kyle finished packing his bag and slammed his locker shut. He picked up his brown pea coat from the floor and slipped it on. "Do you, um, want to get some coffee or something?"

"Oh, fuck no," Stan said smilingly. "I've spent too much time with Tweek today to deal with that crap."

"Ah." Kyle shuffled his feet, which was becoming a frequent habit of his. "What else is up?"

"Oh, you know," Stan began, walking Kyle down the hallway. "Kenny's dead."

"Oh, gee, not this again." Kyle stopped walking and poked Stan right on his sternum. "He'll be at school tomorrow, I guarantee you. You're such a freak, Stanley Marsh, worrying about a little thing like Kenny trying to kill himself."

"The thing is," Stan said slowly, trying to let his thoughts catch up. "The thing is not that he's _dead_, but that he _wanted_ to be dead. Why doesn't that concern you?"

Kyle just shrugged and pulled on the hat he had been holding. "I have more pressing concerns."

"Like?"

"I have a paper due for Am lit on Monday that's only a quarter done."

"I haven't started mine. Really, what's bothering you?"

"Oh, my god, Stan," Kyle sighed, crossing his arms. "I'm fine. You're fine. Kenny? Will be _fine_."

"Well, maybe you can come over after practice."

"What is so great about your house?"

"I don't know," Stan shrugged. "I just need someone to shield me from my fucking father. Plus, you know, trig homework."

"Okay," Kyle said. "It's a date." Stan gave him a funny look. "I mean, like, you know…"

"I know what you mean, dude."

"That's why I like you, Stanley. You speak my language." Kyle left Stan standing in the hallway by himself, scratching his head.

_You speak my language?_ he mused. _What the hell does that even mean?_

XXX

"Dammit, Frank," Carolyn Thompson spat, wringing her hands. "How the hell did you do it?"

"Well, Carolyn, if you'd really like to know, it is merely a testament to my flawless skills as a researcher, in addition to my, shall we say, casual charm."

"Ugh. You're charming like fucking sewer water." Then, in a hushed voice: "You know I needed that grant, Frank. I'm in debt up to my crotch, and I've got to present this thing at the conference next December. How am I supposed to finish it without that money?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. I'm sure you can hook your way to the British Library if you want it _bad enough_." He smiled devilishly, still throbbing with triumph.

"Where the hell are you going, anyway?"

"I already told you, it's a town called, um." He thought for a moment. "South Park. Anyway, the _town_ isn't important, it's what's _happening _there that's important, and I need to talk to some of these kids."

"So you're spending that money to go to fucking _Colorado_ to talk to some _kids_ about why they're _gay_." Carolyn paused. "Brilliant. How much could one ticket cost?"

"It's not merely the travel. It's the room and board, and renting a car. And having a little funding left over to, shall we say, _lubricate_ the project. Assist. Make things go more smoothly."

"Huh." Professor Thompson spun in her chair, thinking about how much she might like to murder Frank Granger in his sleep. "And when do you leave?" she added.

"A few days. I have some contacts to make before I go. I wouldn't like to arrive in the mountains and then be entirely shut out from resources as well as any kind of human civilization."

"It still amazes me that you were able to secure any kind of grant, let alone a prestigious one, for this project."

"Well, there are people who want to _know_. It's one of the great mysteries of our time. Can you honestly tell me that if you had a chance to look into why human sexuality develops as it does, you'd turn your nose up?"

"I prefer slum novels," she shrugged.

"And I'm sure you still will when I return with the great sociological discovery of our time. Meanwhile, the world will have learned nothing about the fucking Jago, and I'll be securing myself a tenured position at an Ivy."

"I hope you fucking fail," she muttered, returning to her papers. "I bet you can't figure out what causes homosexuality." She paused. "And even if you can, it's fucking horrible to even go there."

"I know what you think. I think it's horrible to be deprived of the choice. Don't you wish you could _choose_?"

Her lip quirked a little, but she answered resolutely. "Get out of my office."

"The next time I come to this office, Carolyn, you'll be hailing me as a victor."

"Get _out_, Frank."

Without saying another word, he stomped out of her office. He'd spent the morning idly perusing the town website and now, with information in hand, he had a few phone calls to make.


	2. Chapter 2

Kyle detested Fridays. Oh, they generally began fine enough; nothing wrong with stumbling out of the house way too early to drive his brother to school. Sometimes the weekly school assemblies in the gym would be interesting, and more often they were completely ridiculous. If he was sitting next to Stan, however, assemblies were always awesome. Stan sat there with his arms crossed, legs splayed out in that absurdly manly fashion, eyes turned heavenward. "This shit is pretty fucked up," Stan would mutter, regardless of what was going on in front of the bleachers. "You'd think step one in preventing kids setting up personal meth labs would be, you know, not telling us how to set up meth labs."

"But how would we know how to avoid having a meth lab if we didn't know how to have a meth lab?"

"This school is horrible," Stan concluded, even though it wasn't too bad. South Park High School was an okay place. They offered three foreign languages. Unfortunately for its students, it just suffered from the inescapable condition of being in South Park.

So if Kyle was sitting next to Stan, he got to spend 40 minutes alternatively bantering with, and gazing longingly at, his best friend. Whoever sat on his other side, sometimes Kenny but usually Craig, didn't let this go by unnoticed. Kyle didn't care. Stan was adorable. Adorably _clueless_. And generally too absorbed in reveling in the absurdity of his life. Stan turned to Cartman, who was sitting on his other side. The heavy boy was scribbling down instructions, probably intended to be incorporated into some kind of nefarious plot. Probably, Stan figured, incorporating 12 Haitian refugees and $13,000, deposited directly into his Roth IRA, which, as Kyle had once pointed out to Cartman, he wouldn't be able to get into for years, and you couldn't put that much money in a Roth IRA at one time.

"Oh, you'll see," Cartman hissed, rubbing his hands together. "My ingenious plan will come together perfectly."

"Yeah, when pigs fly out of your ridiculous ass, fucker." Pause. "Which I guess is huge enough to actually fit a pig."

"At least I can eat pig."

"That makes two of us."

And so on.

"Tweek totally looks like he's having an orgasm," Kyle remarked, making eyes at Stan meant to indicate the disheveled boy as he rocked back and forth on the bleachers. "Do you think he's got a meth lab?"

"I think he probably gets it from the troll living under the bridge out of town."

"You mean that homeless guy who yells things?"

"No, I'm pretty sure they're two distinct entities."

"What a fucktard," Kyle remarked, even thought he had no issues with Tweek.

But Fridays got increasingly lamer as the day went on. For one thing, Kyle would spend all of lunch break sitting at his table, trying to think of what to do that night. Every once in a while someone decided to throw a party. Kyle didn't know too many kids outside of the junior class, but some of his friends made it their duty to know everything and, more importantly, everyone. Craig was like this — an inscrutable font of knowledge about which ninth grade girl's parents were staying overnight in Denver because it was their anniversary, and what time to show up with a keg. Kenny was everyone's hookup in that regard, because he knew where to get a keg without anyone questioning his age. Once, Stan's dad tried to throw Stan a party, which had nearly paralyzed Stan with embarrassment. The sole thing that had kept the affair from getting out-of-hand was the party's premature ending at 9 p.m., when Randy Marsh had thrown up on Bebe, half-succeeded in taking off his shirt, and passed out squarely blocking the front door. Stan and his mother graciously showed guests out through the back.

Sometimes all the 11th grade boys hung out together, and that was fun. Kyle was abnormally good at first-person shooters, and the guys had something of a long-standing competition going, with Token keeping the point tallies on a piece of paper he stashed in a drawer in his media room. Despite his skill, Kyle was second to Christophe, who was scary to play Halo with because you never knew when he would bring out a real gun and go after someone, and not infrequently it was Token's family dog. Hands-down, Tweek was the worst guy in the class at nearly any videogame. His inability to stand still and look at the screen was nearly laughable.

But as time went on — as more boys came out, filling the table on the other side of the lunchroom to near-capacity — the guys began to hang out less and less. Suddenly, Kyle found himself spending a lot of Friday nights at the movies, eating Craig's Jujubes and watching him pelt them at the screen. Often Butters would shirk away when this began happening, excusing himself because "It's just not nice to do that to the poor people who have to clean this theater." Kyle knew Butters was right about this, but it was too damn funny to watch Thomas slip ice cubes down someone's shirt, followed by a high-pitched shriek that itself was followed with a hearty exclamation of "cock!" And more laughing. And then, "Shit, fuck!"

After the movies Kyle generally found himself out in the woods, where Christophe and Mark would build a fire, and if Kenny was there he would pass out some beers or a bottle of horribly cheap champagne. If he couldn't manage to get out of the store unnoticed, he brought Everclear.

Hands down, however, Kyle's best nights were spent with Stan. Generally, it didn't matter what he did with Stan. Stan liked to get a burger, usually, and watch increasingly bad movies. Stan's house was generally a better time, assuming his parents weren't around. If they were, however, they were trapped at Kyle's. And despite the fact that Kyle's parents were less obnoxious overall than most would suspect, Friday nights at the Broflovski house generally incorporated too much Hebrew, and too many younger brothers. Still, Kyle knew that Stan liked Shabbat dinner, if only because he was a pig and the idea of eating chicken fat-covered green beans appealed to him. Kyle, who found this food disgusting, tried to find solace in watching Stan eat it. Then, ultimately, Stan would look on as Kyle and his younger brother fought over the TV. Ike would generally run out crying after having been punched in the gut, holding himself and moaning, "I'm telling!" Despite these threats, Ike never told, and then they were free to watch TV.

"Hey," Stan said casually, slipping behind Kyle in the lunch line. "Room for me?"

"Yes." Kyle took a look down at the pile of brown trays. "Do these look like they're still wet to you?"

"Always," said a chipper voice, and both Kyle and Stan turned around to see that Kenny had slipped behind them in line, and was busy ignoring the protests of the patron behind him.

"Holy fuck, dude!" Stan exclaimed, hugging Kenny tightly. "You're back!"

"I'm always back," Kenny said, rolling his eyes and attempting to shove Stan away from him.

"But we heard—"

"It's true," Kenny said proactively.

"Why, Kenny?" Stan asked, handing the blond boy a tray.

"Be careful," Kyle cautioned. "They're wet."

"Oh, fuck that," Stan said dismissively. "Who cares."

"Some of us care, Stanley."

"Screw you, dude! Kenny fucking killed him—"

"It's fine," Kenny said softly. "I'm here."

"But why did you do it, dude?" Stan pressed.

"He can do whatever he wants," Kyle said, tapping his foot in annoyance.

"Apparently," Kenny shrugged.

"But you must have a reason."

"Well, I—" Kenny began, but he was caught off guard

"Oh, look, guys," a whiny voice moaned from behind. "The little butt-muncher's back. Hey butt-muncher, how does it feel to wake up in your bed the morning after you stick your head in the oven? Are you sad? Do you need your fag friends to hold you?"

"Fuck yourself, fat ass," Kenny drawled, arms crossed. "Fuck yourself right in your fucking fat ass."

"Oooh, Kenny, that was downright _elegant_," Cartman continued, poking the smaller boy in the sternum. "My ears, they cannot behold such poetry."

"Go get in the back of the line, Cartman," Kyle said sternly.

"No, Kyle, I don't think I will. I think I like it up front here with my friends, even if two of them are _fags_, and one fag is a filthy little ass-ramming Jew."

"Dammit!"

"Oh, Kyle, I'm sorry. You probably _take_ it up the ass. How could I make such a mistake? You don't have the fortitude to pleasure a man. You probably just _lie_ there, crying — oh, you're starting to cry right now, aren't you? Oh, this is too easy! Really, Kyle, sometimes I wonder why I don't find a more evenly matched—"

"Jesus, you fat fuck." Stan suddenly reached out and grasped the collar on the large boy's regulation military jacket, a hand-me-down from some white trash relative. "Get the fuck out of here." Generally Cartman's weight was like an iron anchor, but caught off guard, he stumbled back when Stan pushed him.

"Screw you guys," Cartman scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. If Kyle could imagine him capable of such a thing, he would have sworn that Cartman looked embarrassed; it was known, however, that Eric Cartman had no scruples, and no sense of shame.

As he toddled off to the end of the line, muttering all the way, Stan put his arm around Kyle's shoulder. "It's cool, dude," he said as they awkwardly embraced. "He's a piece of crap, that's all."

"Then why do we hang out with him, again?" Kyle sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of hand.

"No idea."

"No hug for me?" Kenny asked.

"Oh, Kenny," Stan said fakely, tackling the boy in the black hoodie. "Oh, baby."

"Jesus, you're making hard." Stan stumbled back as Kenny gently shoved him off.

"Not me," Kyle mumbled, his attention seemingly diverted by the lunch counter.

"If you want to hold me like that," Kenny whispered, leaning into Stan, "I'll meet you behind the gym after lunch. There's a little corner I like to go to? It's really secluded."

"Um."

"Oh, relax, breeder, don't get your panties in a bunch. I just want to talk."

"You're half-breeder! And anyway, don't call me that. It's an insult."

"It's a cute one, though." Kenny reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a lighter. "Anyway, I just remembered I don't have money for lunch today. See you out back? In 20 minutes?"

"Uh—"

"Be there or be massively fucked by the wrath of god!" Kenny cheered as he walked away.

Stan found Kyle waiting for him at the end of the line, holding a tray of spaghetti. "What are you doing tonight?" Stan asked casually, balancing his tray with one hand and scratching the back of his head with the other.

"I don't know," Kyle admitted. "I guess I'll talk about it with the guys." Stan knew what this meant, and he didn't press any further.

"Cool. See you later, maybe."

"Maybe."

XXX

Stan sprinted out behind the gym. He'd nearly forgotten to meet Kenny, and now he was 10 minutes late. He spied the blond boy sitting by himself on a tree stump, smoking and staring at him expectantly.

"Fucker," Kenny spat, exhaling cigarette smoke. "You're late."

"You don't have a watch," Stan pointed out.

"I can see it in your eyes, you feel guilty."

"Sorry."

"I know how you can make it up to me…"

"That's cool." There was a slight pause as Kenny stood up and brushed off his pants, not that they were ever going to be anything other than tattered and filthy.

"It's true," he said directly, flicking the cigarette onto the ground. "I did indeed toast my brain two nights ago."

"You didn't, you know … the gas?"

"Yeah, whatever. The point is, Stan, it was an experiment."

"That is a pretty fucked up experiment thing right there, dude!"

"Yeah, well, I just wanted to tell you." Kenny pulled another cigarette from behind his ear; Stan had only just noticed it. He lit it with his silver lighter and tucked it back in his hoodie pocket. "It's not over," he said coolly, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

"How do you mean?" Stan asked, looking around to see if he was being listened to, if anyone was there. Cartman or someone like that.

"I'll show you." Kenny held up a single finger and crouched down, lifting up the left leg of his jeans. He pulled out a handgun from a holster, and calmly returned the pant leg to its initial state.

"Holy shit, dude!" Stan cried, jumping nearly a foot back. "Get rid of that thing! What the fuck!"

"I'm not going to shoot you, Stan. You're too cute to die."

"But you're going to shoot someone or _something_!"

"Yeah, retard, I'm going to shoot _me_."

"You? Jesus, Kenny, what the fuck?"

"I just, you know." Kenny took another drag on his cigarette.

"Where the hell did you get that thing?"

"_Ze Mole_." This was pronounced with a heavily fake French accent.

"You mean that little fucker _Christophe_," Stan slurred.

"He doesn't like that name."

"I don't give a fuck what he likes, dude, that thing is horrible! Get it away from me."

"Down, boy. I had no idea you were such a tight-ass about firearms."

"Ah, yeah, well, see, the thing with _that_ is, Kenny, you're the only person I know who's immune to bullets!"

"I'm not _immune_, I die, just like you would."

"Yeah, and then you miraculously get un-dead!"

"Is this going somewhere?"

"Uh." Stan felt a little queasy, but he tried to compose himself. "Please, please don't shoot yourself, dude."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"It's not okay!"

Kenny took another drag on his cigarette, which was rapidly coming to an end of its short life. Kenny had a habit of smoking them down to the filter, however, so it probably had another puff or two left in it. "Stan, I learned something today." He exhaled. "I am a fucking golden god, and I will never stay dead, no matter what I do. And I'm bored. So now I'm just going to kill myself all the time. Sounds fun, eh?"

"No, it sounds ludicrous! Why are you telling me?"

Kenny shrugged. "You seemed concerned for me," he said, finally killing off the end of his cigarette. "So I figured I'd let you in on my plan. And, um, nicely ask you not to stop me."

There was another moment of silence during which Stan wavered. Neglecting to halt his friend's suicide felt wrong. It felt, like, maybe one step above killing Kenny himself. If even. "You are intending to … come back, right?" Stan asked slowly.

"I have no intentions in this crazy world," Kenny replied solemnly, distractedly thinking about whether he had time before next period to smoke another cigarette. He decided that he didn't. "Thanks, Stan," he shrugged, beginning to slog away through the thawing mud.

"For what?" Stan asked.

Kenny turned back around. "I don't know. Giving a shit. Not interfering. I don't really know."

Stan didn't say anything else as Kenny slipped back behind the gym and vanished from sight. He had some class now, and so did Stan.

XXX

Another thing made Kyle miserable on Friday afternoons: He had Latin with fucking Cartman right after lunch. Perhaps he would have been cheerier if the weekend looked like it was going anywhere good, but Butters had decided that they were going to buy a bottle of pre-mixed mai tais and watch horrible movies. This was so far from Kyle's ideal Friday night it was almost laughable. Still, he couldn't say no to Butters ever, about anything. The little blond boy just had this disgusting sense of optimism about everything — it was nearly impossible to look him in the eyes and just say 'no, no we're not doing that.' Kyle guessed that it might be possible to convince Kenny to tag along for this, because Kenny was proven to show up to nearly any event that involved alcohol, and if it was gratis, all the better. But then Kenny hadn't even been at lunch, and now Kyle was sitting in Latin class, waiting for it to start.

He tapped his slight stack of vocabulary cards on his desk and hummed to himself, waiting for the teacher to show. He was considering pulling out a book and beginning to read to pass the time, but he heard a bag slam down on the floor next to him and when he looked up it was Cartman, grinning down in that perfectly shit-eating way he had.

"Hiiiii Kyle," he slurred, leaning against the desk. "How was lunch at the other table?"

"Fine."

"Did you miss me?"

"Of course I didn't miss you, you fat piece of crap."

"Now, Kyle, is this because of the unpleasantries we shared in the lunch line? I _am_ sorry Kyle, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Just shut your goddamn mouth right now."

"No, I must _apologize_. I don't want my good friend to be angry at me—"

"What the hell are you planning, dude?"

"Who says I'm planning anything?" Cartman asked, batting his eyelashes ironically.

"You're doing that sweet, simpering thing again. Do you want me to do your homework for you? I mean what, what is it?"

"Can't a guy just talk with his friend?"

"I am not your friend, fat ass!" Kyle yelled, rising at his desk to face the larger boy. A few kids in the class began to stare at them.

"Temper, temper, Kyle." Cartman wagged his finger. "I don't see your boyfriend around to fight your battles for you right now."

"He is _not_ my boyfriend." Kyle breathed this out through gritted teeth.

"I hit a nerve!" Cartman gasped, barely managing not to clap his hands in glee. "Oh, you _do_ want him, don't you? Isn't lusting after your dear, straight best friend against the gay code?"

"I mean it, Cartman." A female senior sitting next to Kyle saw his fist clench together, and she gasped.

"Kyle, please, you're scaring the class."

"I do not like Stan!"

"Don't deny it, baby. Stan's quite a catch. He's the captain of the football team — but he's got the lamest haircut I have ever seen, if you can call that thing a haircut, of course. But then, let's face it, Kyle, you're just desperate for any kind of male attention that doesn't come from your little fag friends. Sadly, though, Stan's not interested in what you've got to offer. I think if he weren't so painfully straight he'd definitely want a real man, not some fire-crotched little ballerina Jew with a huge girl-ass and—"

Whatever Cartman was going to say next, he didn't get to say it, because Kyle's fist made contact with his jaw and he crumpled over in shock. He gasped for a moment, holding his jaw, and looked up at Kyle with a devilish smirk.

"Oh, Kyle! Easy, boy!" He was laughing at the other boy's frustration now. "You'll break a _nail_."

"I'll break your ass, you fat fuck!" Kyle screamed, literally throwing himself on top of Cartman and pounding at his face with balled up fists.

"Oh, my," Cartman continued to laugh. "The pain, the _pain_, my fragile little body cannot take more pounding from this faggy little Jew-boy."

Kyle very nearly shrieked and continued to beat down on the laughing Cartman ineffectually until he felt a man's arms grasp his waist and literally lift him off of Eric. He looked behind him to see his teacher holding him up, and then he noticed the nine or so pairs of eyes directed at him.

"Jesus, Broflovski!" the teacher shouted. "What are you doing?"

"He's fucking _insulting_ me! He called me 'fag' and he—" Kyle stopped short.

"I what, Kyle?" Cartman asked, picking himself off of the floor.

"That's it!" the teacher cried. "Cartman, Broflovski — you can sort this out with the principal. Get the fuck out of here!"

Cartman grinned at Kyle with satisfaction as he picked up his bag. Kyle grabbed his notecards on the way out the door.

XXX

"I got you in trouble," Cartman sang, bouncing down the hall. "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha."

"Shut up," Kyle growled, clutching his backpack to his chest. "Seriously, seriously. Just shut your fat fucking face or I swear I will…"

"Hit me again?"

"Shut up!" Kyle screamed, coming to a halt in front of some lockers.

"Please, Kyle," Cartman scoffed. "Please, just stop. You're just embarrassing yourself here, Kyle. Your Jew mouth is only going to get you in trouble."

"What are you, 5?"

"I'm 16," Cartman said frankly. He continued walking to the principal's office.

"I fucking hate that bitch," Kyle seethed, exasperated. He then sprinted to catch up with his nemesis, who was bouncing toward their destination with untoward gaiety.

XXX

"Mr. Broflovski," the secretary said, not amused, barely glancing up from her computer screen. "Mr. Cartman."

"What up?" Cartman said casually. "Might I say, Miss Johansen, you are looking quite lovely today. Is that a new cardigan?"

"Actually, yes," Miss Johansen confirmed. "What can I do for you boys?"

"Well, my friend Kyle here took it upon himself to try and beat me up during Latin. I mean, he hardly succeeded, you can just look at him and see he doesn't have the arms for it."

"Shut up!" Kyle raged again. "He insulted me, he called me a fag, and he's just trying to get me pissed so he can taunt me into—"

"Miss Johansen, you can see that he's clearly upset. Far be it for me to tell you this but little Kyle's not having a good week, although for good measure you might want to talk to our friend Stan, he can fill you in on the details."

"Stanley Marsh? What's he got to do with it?"

"Nothing," Kyle growled. "Absolutely nothing."

"I shouldn't have to say this, boys, but fighting is unacceptable."

"Of course. That's why I didn't hit back."

"You hit me verbally, you shithead! You said I had a girl-ass, whatever _that_ means!"

"It really becomes you, Kyle."

"It's not a girl-ass!"

Miss Johansen sighed, picking up her nail file. "Get back to class, Eric,"

"Aren't you going to discipline him?" Kyle asked expectantly.

"Thank you for handling this matter appropriately," Cartman said graciously before bowing to Miss Johansen and scurrying back to class.

"Well?" Kyle asked, tapping his foot in the usual manner.

"It just so happens, Kyle, that the principal wants to see you."

"Me?" Kyle gaped at the glorified authority figure sitting in front of him. "I told you, he verbally abused me, maybe I shouldn't have hit him but he _deserved_ it, how much am I supposed to take?"

"I think this is an unrelated matter," Miss Johansen sighed, indicating to Kyle where the door to the principal's office was and that he should open it.

XXX

As it happened, it was not an _entirely_ unrelated matter, as the focus of Cartman's taunts was, as usual, Kyle's sexuality, and this was tangentially related.

"You're from Duke," Kyle said blankly, staring at the researcher … man … guy.

"I am," the guy confirmed. "The name's Frank Granger."

"Yeah, you mentioned. I just … you want to talk to _me_."

"I do."

Kyle stared at Frank Granger blankly. Frank Granger stared back. Kyle blinked. Frank Granger blinked. Kyle spoke. "Why?" he asked, honestly curious.

"Kyle, have you noticed anything weird about the males in your class?"

Kyle blinked at this, too. "There's a lot weird in my grade, dude," he said directly, thinking of Kenny and his unmistakable inability to stay dead and buried, even after he was found drowned in a pool of his own vomit, that one time. The vomit was found to contain trace amounts of lighter fluid. It was anyone's guess as to what that was doing there. When Kenny came back, he shrugged it off — typical Kenny.

"I am referring to the fact that something like three-quarters of the males in your class are homosexual," Granger stated plainly.

"Or bisexual," Kyle added.

"Yes, or that. Have you noticed?"

"It would be hard not to."

"What do you make of it?"

"I don't know," Kyle shrugged. "Why do you care what I make of it?"

"Kyle, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I believe that isolating whatever causes so many of the boys in your class to be gay will lead to some interesting conclusions. I can look at the shared elements of your upbringings and experiences, and determine what, if anything, made so many of you to turn out how you did."

"Gay."

"Yes, gay."

"So you think it's a nurture thing."

"Well, that or something chemical. I have some lab guys I brought with me to look at some indigenous factors, like the town water supply."

"If the town water supply were contaminated with some kind of, I don't know, gay thing, don't you think the _entire_ town would be gay?"

Frank Granger laughed, and to Kyle's great annoyance he also slapped his knees as he laughed. The entire thing came off as almost certainly fake, and Kyle wondered just why the hell he was sitting in front of the guy.

"My dear boy," Granger said, straightening himself in his seat. "I don't really think drinking contaminated water could make you gay. But, as they say, better safe than sorry, so we're going to try and determine if there was some kind of biological factor that made you all this way."

"Uh huh." Kyle sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "So what the hell am I doing here?"

"I'm glad you asked. See, I need to talk to the kids in your class. A large part of this research — and this is a sociological study, you see — is chatting with the locals. And you, dear boy, are a local I want to chat with."

"But why," Kyle pressed. "Why _me_? I'm not _that_ gay. You know who you should talk to? This kid named Eric Cartman. Now _he_ is _flaming_." Kyle kind of smirked in victory, satisfied with getting a jab in to someone who may or may not believe him, and probably wouldn't care. "Also, Butters is _way_ gayer than I am. And this kid Christophe, he smokes Gauloises." Kyle pronounced this "Guhl-wah-ssssssay," and although he wasn't sure if that was the correct way to say it, he was almost certain that it was the _gay_ way to say it, which would only serve to undermine his argument.

"No, Kyle," Frank Granger said sternly. "This is really a project I need your help on."

"I'm not getting involved," Kyle said suspiciously, "unless you tell me why the hell you want my help. I mean, I'm a busy guy here." It was only after he'd said this that Kyle realized all he had to do tonight was watch _The Wedding Planner_ with Butters, and it had to be about the worst movie ever, so maybe this Frank Granger guy was his way out of that.

"Kyle, when did you decide you were gay?"

Kyle blinked. "Uh," he said stupidly, trying to comprehend the amount of levels the question was wrong on. "Well, not that it's _your_ business, but that's not a thing I decided, r-tard."

"You didn't wake up one morning and decide you were gay?"

"No!"

"Of course not. That's not something you can just decide. What I mean is, when did you, you know, come to terms with it."

"Why should I tell you anything about me?"

Frank Granger sighed, and took off the idiotic horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like an unholy offspring of Rivers Cuomo and a falcon. "Kyle, have you ever wanted to help millions of people?"

"Well, yeah."

"And as your time as a high school student ends, aren't you wondering about where you can go and what you can do to make a difference in the world?"

Kyle blinked. This creepy man really knew who he was talking to. "Everyone feels that way," he said softly. "There's not a lot most of us can do."

"I'm afraid most people _don't_ feel that way, Kyle. Think about the boys in your class. How many of them are concerned with helping others? What are their plans for college? Are they ambitious at all?"

Kyle felt that this was something of an unfair question to ask him, seeing as though he had no concrete plans for college and at the moment, his only ambition was to spend as much time with Stan as humanly possible without the other boy realizing that there was something utterly disgusting and unsettling about the way Kyle kept looking at him. Furthermore, Kyle thought about the most ambitious person he'd ever met in his life, who clearly had no interest in helping anyone unless it was part of some sick scheme to help himself. This person had also just insulted Kyle's ass, which was a touchy subject for him because honestly, it wasn't that big, it just looked big in these pants, and that wasn't his fault, if he wanted his pants to fit around the waist they were just going to be tight in the back but he'd _accepted_ this, godammit. He squirmed in his seat, hoping this line of questioning wasn't going where he thought it might.

"Kyle," Frank Granger said softly, taking the boy's hand. Kyle _really_ wanted to pull it away, but there was something curious happening in the dude's eyes — it was like they were alit with passion, or something. Scary passion. He wanted to get up and run away but he felt too unsettled. "Your principal told me about you. He told me there was a boy who could tell me all about your class, and the guys in it. He told me about _you_, and he said you were such a caring, passionate person. That you struggle to be your best in spite of so many challenges. He told me that you genuinely care about this world and the people in it, while the other kids in your class are wrapped up in themselves and their videogames. Does that sound like you?"

"I play videogames." Kyle drew his hand away.

"Well, so do I. But that doesn't matter. What matters is millions of people in this world feel like you do, every day. They want to know what made them who they are. Some of them have problems with their families. Some of them feel like they'll never have their own family. Some of them are hurt and degraded and it would give them just _some_ comfort to know why, why am I this way?"

"That doucherocket told you this about me?"

"He did," Frank Granger confirmed. "So what do you say, Kyle? Can you help me? I can ask one of your friends, but … well, I'd like it to be you."

Kyle twitched, inherently uncomfortable with what he knew he was about to say. "I was 11," he uttered sadly. He made a gallant effort not to look Frank Granger in the eyes.

"So you'll help me?"

"Oh, fuck. This blows. Yeah, I guess I'll help you."


	3. Chapter 3

_So, it only took me a year to find a style of section breaks I think I can live with on this site._

XXX

Kyle was not sure how he would review his weekend if someone asked him to. Of course, no one _had_ asked him, except for his father, who asked him where the hell he thought he was going at 9:45 on a Saturday morning. Kyle really wished he had been able to say 'nowhere' because after getting back from Butters' at 4 a.m., he felt like maybe waking up first thing to go talk to Frank Granger, PhD, was probably a bad idea.

Still, when he stumbled into the coffee place to meet Frank Granger, he began to feel a little better. Frank Granger was waiting for him with coffee, exactly how Kyle liked it. It occurred to Kyle that he drank his coffee black, and maybe Frank Granger _didn't_ know this; maybe Frank Granger was just cheap and expected Kyle to add whatever he wanted to his coffee. But in light of the conversation they had following Kyle's acceptance of his vaguely mediocre cup of coffee, Kyle was predisposed to think about Frank Granger in a positive light.

The first thing he told Frank Granger was that his friend Craig was constantly buying him coffee. The professor — Kyle just assumed he was a professor, because he worked at a university — wanted to know more about Craig. Kyle wasn't really sure where to start. "Um, well, he wears a hat." Frank didn't look like this information was too groundbreaking for him. "It's an okay hat. He's had it since he was a kid. You'd think that thing would be disintegrated, but I guess it was a good buy."

"And this Craig character is your friend?"

"He's probably my closest friend after Stan. I mean, if it's not Kenny." Kyle got quiet. "I don't like to rank them. My friends, I mean."

"What is Craig like?"

Kyle didn't really know how to describe Craig. Craig wasn't very open with his feelings. But then, what high school boy was? Possibly Butters. Possibly. But not really. "Uh. Craig's nice." Kyle shrugged in ambivalence. "Is that good?"

Frank Granger sighed and rubbed his hands together "Is Craig _gay_?" he asked pointedly. Kyle said that he was. "And what about the others you mentioned?"

"Who else did I mention?" Frank tapped something, and Kyle realized that he recognized the sound of pen hitting paper. It was then that he glanced to his right and saw that the older man was holding a tape recorder steady. In fact, he was placing it on the table. "Has that been on the whole time?"

"Of course. How else would I keep a record of what you were saying?"

"Uh."

"You mentioned a Stan and a Kenny today, just now, and yesterday you mentioned…" Frank flipped through some notes. "Christophe and Butters and Eric."

"Well, what about them?"

"They're your friends?"

"Well, Cartman's not my friend."

"Are all of _them_ gay?"

"What?" Kyle asked. "No, no. Stan is totally, totally straight. In fact, he plays football."

"I wasn't aware that your little school had a football team."

"It's a regional team," Kyle clarified. "Only a handful of guys from the school play, up in North Park. That fat-ass is a linebacker, which is probably obvious considering he's built like the fucking Hindenburg and is just as deathly gaseous. Stan, on the other hand, is a quarterback." Kyle grinned at this. "_And_ the team captain."

"And Stan is straight, you say?"

"Sadly."

"You really respect this Stan guy."

"He's my best friend."

"Is he?"

"What?" Kyle asked, turning his had quickly. "Yeah, we've been best friends for fucking _ever_, dude." Frank Granger kind of smirked at this and scribbled something else down on his notepad. Kyle looked at the tape player nervously before dismissing it entirely. This dude was a _professor_. Or a something, anything. He was at Duke. It all felt fairly legit, but Kyle couldn't help being bothered by Frank's little smile. "What?" he asked again.

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that nothing crap. I invented that shit."

"Actually, young man, it's been around for quite some time."

"Ah, god, you're just like _my mom_."

"Your mom? What's she like?" And Kyle launched into a several minute diatribe about his mom: He loved her, and he loved talking to her, but he hated the way she tried to control him. She was accepting, kind of. She let him do what he wanted, an this included shunning _kashrut_ altogether, and Kyle was slightly impressed that Frank did not flinch on the word 'kashrut,' almost as if he knew what it meant. Kyle was so used to having to explain these things to ignorant nobodies ("that fatass again," he growled, kind of tensing a fist) that he began to feel a momentary but intense liking for Frank Granger. Because Frank was just sitting there, listening to him talk, on and on about his mother and her neuroses, and just how damn _domineering_ she could be. Not that Kyle disliked his mother. She was okay. But ranting to Frank about her was just so _easy_.

"And that's how come she started a _war_, dude," he concluded.

"By the way, Kyle," Frank said knowingly, pushing those idiotic glasses up on his nose. "Football teams generally only have a single quarterback at any given time."

"What did I say?"

"That Stan is _a_ quarterback."

"There might be understudies," Kyle rationalized, somewhat joking.

"Uh huh," Frank mumbled, jotting something down on his pad of paper.

Kyle kind of shifted his eyes around the coffee shop, not interested in anyone hearing what he had to say next. "Can I, uh … can I tell you something?" he asked sheepishly, twisting a napkin in his hands.

"You can tell me anything."

"Can it be kept in confidence?"

"All of this is in confidence." Frank eyed his tape recorder, but Kyle didn't notice this.

"Well, okay. I, um … I like him."

"Like who?"

"Stan," Kyle hissed. "My best friend."

"Oh." Frank Granger didn't appear to be too concerned with this information. "Good for you."

"Good for me? Dude, it sucks!"

"Why does it suck?"

"I'm in love with my best friend!"

"Maybe you should tell him how you feel."

"What?" Kyle choked this out; the entire time he had been straining to keep this information between him and Frank. "No, dude, he'd freak! You can't tell your friend something like that, you just can't!"

"Well." Frank kind of fiddled with his pen awkwardly. "Kyle, you're a good kid, and, um … well, he seems like a nice guy. Maybe he won't mind."

"Of course he'll mind, dude, it's sick! I feel like a pervert, dreaming about my friend, wanting him to, er … do things to me. When I'm with him I can't help _staring_ at him, it's like a disease. And the worst thing is, there's no one I can _tell_ about it. I mean, if anyone found out, well, I'd just … my life would be over."

This caught Frank's attention. "I don't think you should feel bad about it," he said warmly. "You're a 16-year-old boy, you like other boys, this boy is close to you. It's not so out-of-the-ordinary. Maybe he feels the same way."

"No way, dude. He's totally, totally straight."

"Uh huh."

"He is!"

"Okay, well, why don't you date someone else?" Kyle's eyes widened at this suggestion.

"Someone else?" It was as if the thought had never occurred to him. "I mean … I could, I guess. In theory."

"You should. Maybe it'll take your mind off this Stan guy."

"Maybe."

"Okay." Frank Granger sighed, and it was at this point that Kyle noticed he was fingering the 'stop' button on the tape recorder. "So, your mom's kind of a bitch," he said casually, struggling to get Kyle back on topic.

"She's not a bitch."

Frank rolled his eyes, doubting this assessment in light of what he'd learned. "Yeah, all right. Tell me about your dad." Kyle didn't see what the point in talking all about his parents was, but he didn't see the harm in it, either. He felt kind of collected, having gotten that stuff about Stan off his chest, so he followed Frank Granger's instructions and began to talk about his father.

XXX

During study hall on Monday, Stan was looking over his notes for Spanish. "This school sucks," he muttered to himself. "Good god, this school sucks balls."

"I can show you sucking balls," said a throaty voice next to him, and he looked up from the page to see Kenny bent over the table.

"Dude! Where were you all weekend?"

"Dead," Kenny said nonchalantly, scratching his head.

"So, um, you did it?"

"Ho, yeah." Kenny took a seat proper and began to pull some study materials out of his backpack. "Right in my mouth, too. Stupendous mess."

"Jesus!" Stan felt a little queasy.

"It's cool, I'm here. What'd I miss?"

"Ugh, nothing, I've been writing a paper all weekend, but it's done now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was a moment of silence as Kenny flipped through the pages of his bio textbook.

"Listen," Kenny said slowly. "Can I tell you something?"

"Well, yeah, dude. Spill."

"It's about my death."

"Don't you mean 'deaths,' plural?"

"I don't know." Kenny shrugged. "That's what I'm trying to talk about." There was a pen sitting on the table, and as he spoke Kenny opened it and began to doodle on himself. It was a felt-tip, and the ink ran through the creases in his hand subtly and quickly. "I've been worried for a while," he said dreamily, tracing over an X where his forefinger joined his thumb.

"I've been worried about you. It's not normal to kill yourself repeatedly."

"It's not normal to _die_ repeatedly, either, and that's my problem. A few weeks ago, after the incident with the forklift, I started thinking, will I ever die? And it occurred to me that I had one shot. I figured, maybe if I killed _myself_, maybe the point is that I have to be _ready_ to die. Maybe, I thought maybe, it's a mindset."

"So you put your head in the oven."

"Uh huh."

"And you thought maybe you wouldn't come back."

"Uh huh."

"Kenny," Stan said slowly, licking his lips. "You're such a fucking retard, dude!" He shook his friend by the shoulders. "Never! Ever! Kill! Your! Self!"

"Jesus, dude."

"I'd miss you!"

"Fine, you'd miss me, but how do you think _I_ feel? Sometimes, when I go, I think, oh, this is nice, there's no bickering parents here. No rapist brothers and shit. And then I wake up in that fucking hovel, and my mouth tastes like come and boozy vomit, and I think, this is my life?"

"You've been thinking too much," Stan said cautiously. He was a little frightened by this line of reasoning. "I mean, wasn't it scary? Killing _yourself_?"

"Well, it was the first time, with the oven. My mother frankly wasn't pleased. Apparently the gas bill couldn't handle it. But after that, you know, with the gun and shit. That was kind of thrilling. But now there's no risk involved. All I really want is to feel some emotions."

"I'll say you're feeling emotions!" Stan cried. "This is some pretty fucked up emo shit right here! It's freaking me _out_."

"Just thanks for listening," Kenny said sadly, now tracing the breasts on the female reproductive anatomy diagram in his textbook.

"Listening to what?" Kenny and Stan looked up to see Kyle slamming his books down on the library table.

"Nothing," Kenny sighed. "Just the depressive ramblings of a madman."

"I don't see Cartman around," Kyle said entirely seriously, taking a seat. "And I don't know any other mad men."

"You wouldn't understand. Even Stan doesn't get it and he's the biggest emo pussy I've ever met in my life."

"Look who's talking!" Stan hissed, closing the cover of his Spanish notebook.

"Okay, well, I have a problem," Kyle said frankly.

"Me me me," Kenny blathered, now drawing penises around the text in his book.

"Shut up, dude!" Kyle turned to Stan, and said, in all seriousness: "Do you think I have a girl-ass?"

"Uh."

"Duh," Kenny said directly, slamming shut his science book.

"What!" Kyle's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. "No I _don't_!"

"Why are you asking _me_, anyway?" Stan asked blandly.

"I don't know a lot of people who spend their time assessing chicks' asses." Kenny raised his hand. "Not counting insane pansexual manwhores," Kyle added quickly.

"Ask your boyfriends, they'll tell you what's what," Stan suggested.

"Ugh, I already did. They're bitches. Just tell me."

"Kyle," Kenny said. "You have the largest, most amazing, sumptuously ample behind I have seen in my entire life. It is full of distinct possibilities. It is a sight to behold. You are truly a worthy inheritor to your mother's great legacy. Shall I continue?"

Kyle just looked horrified at this, his mouth hanging open stupidly.

"Harsh, dude," Stan muttered, slightly grinning. "Although true. True and harsh."

"I cannot believe this. I … I just … wow."

"18-18-42," Kenny mocked.

"What prompted this revelation?"

"That fucking fat-ass—" Kyle began.

"How ironic!" Kenny cheered. "I love this, dude. Continue."

"Ugh, he just said I — it doesn't matter. Fuck me."

"Who wouldn't?" Kenny asked. "That thing looks like it would provide serenely wonderful enjoyment."

"Please stop," Kyle begged. "This is really putting a damper on my awesome weekend."

"Oh, I shot myself in the mouth this weekend."

"Sick, dude!"

"Well, I did. What did _you_ do?"

"In the _mouth_?"

"Why was it awesome?" Stan asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from Kenny's musings on life and death, and his conduits for experiencing both.

"Well," Kyle began. "I met this guy."

"Oh lord."

"Oh, please," Kenny enthused, waggling his eyebrows. "Do tell."

"Um, no. It is not like that _at all_. That's not what I … it's not … it's not _that_."

"Well, what is it?" Stan asked. So Kyle cleared his throat and explained about Frank Granger. His friends stared at him for all 10 minutes of exposition, enrapt. "I didn't hear anything about a Frank … guy," Stan said at the end.

"And what do you think? Some man from Duke wants to talk to _me_."

"It sounds weird and suspicious," Kenny offered.

"No it doesn't!"

"It makes perfect sense to me." All three boys looked up to see Eric Cartman seating himself in the chair next to Kyle.

"What makes perfect sense to you?" Kyle asked, not really sure he wanted to know what Cartman was able to hear of their conversation.

"Some researcher wanting to know what causes gayness, for one thing. That said researcher would begin his research by talking to our little friend Kyle here."

"Shut up! I'm five-eight! That's totally something!"

"How long were you listening to us, dude?" Stan asked.

"Long enough to hear everything I needed to hear." Cartman hunched over and pulled a couple of notebooks out of his backpack. "Are we studying for the Am lit exam? That paper was killer, am I right?"

"What are you planning, fat ass?" Kyle asked.

"Planning? Why, whatever can you mean? I simply want to discuss _The Grapes of Wrath_ with my bestest friends."

"They're poor, someone sucks someone's tit. That's basically the whole book."

"How enlightening, Kenny. It sounds a lot like your life."

"Shut up! But actually, yeah, it does," Kenny said thoughtfully.

"Oh, my god, Cartman, just tell me what you're on about." Kyle's voice was almost pleading.

"Ugh, Kyle, I had no idea Jews were so paranoid. Or maybe this is your fag side coming out, like it matters. Seriously though, Kyle, I just heard what you were saying, and it sounded interesting."

"You're not interested in anything, unless it's yourself."

"How unfair, Kyle. How sad and unfair. I have an interest in the betterment of human society just like the rest of you."

"That is such a lie!" Kyle shrieked.

"Study hall, dude," Stan reminded him, putting an index finger to his lips. Kyle found this adorable, obviously, but he didn't have much time to enjoy it because Cartman began speaking again.

"I can't believe you think I wouldn't be interested in finding out more about a research project with the ultimate goal of eliminating faggotry from the world."

"What!"

"I don't think that's the point," Stan said meekly, desperately hoping this conversation would end itself before it began.

"No, it's totally true. Why else do you retards think some guy would even _want_ to know the _cause _of gayness? To _eradicate_ gayness. Duh. Frankly, I find your lack of intuition on this matter disturbing, Kyle. Stan, you're a little slow, and you don't care about gay people anyway. But your boyfriend here, he generally figures this stuff out much quicker. But I guess it's true what they say: The more cocks you suck, the more brain cells you lose."

"They don't say that!" Kenny cried.

"I haven't sucked _that_ many cocks!"

"How many is it?" Stan asked under his breath. Kyle didn't hear this.

"Well, Kyle, I sincerely hope you and your friend Granger are successful in this project. I truly hope that one day you can go back to just being a _Jew_. I think being a homo too isn't doing you any favors."

"Ach! Dude!" Kyle shrieked again, picking up his things and running out of the library as fast as he could.

When Kyle was gone, Cartman turned to his notes, and Kenny and Stan looked at each other, the former annoyed and the latter confused. "I think you should get out of here," Stan said to Cartman.

"What's that?" Cartman asked. "Study hall is over in 45 minutes, Stan. I suggest you use this time wisely." He smirked, and stuck his nose back in his literature notebook. Stan looked at Kenny pleadingly.

"I told you it sounded suspicious," Kenny said, rolling his eyes. "But oh, no, no one listens to little _Kenny_, he just lives in a barn and listens to _Metallica_, he never has any insights about _anything_."

"Dude," Stan said in response, pinching the bridge of his nose.

XXX

Kyle ran down the hall, panting. He was in horrible shape. Well, not _horrible_ shape, but he didn't do a lot of running. Not like he saw the guys at football practice run when he went up there to watch. God, even Cartman could probably outrun him. It was pathetic. Kyle slammed himself into the door to the faculty lounge, where he knew the object of his rage would be sitting, going over permanent records or something.

Frank Granger looked up when the door flew open. "Kyle!" he said warmly. "You're kind of early."

"Is it true?"

"Um."

"Just tell me, is it true?"

"Slow down there, kid. You look kind of out-of-breath. I mean, is _what_ true?"

"You want to get rid of homosexuality!" Kyle said accusingly, falling into a chair across from Frank Granger, pointing his finger tenuously.

"Where did you hear that?"

"It doesn't matter! You said you wanted me to help you _help_ people, but I thought you just meant you wanted people to _understand_, not entirely remove this thing from society!"

"Look, Kyle, you're clearly upset. Let me assure you, I in no way intend to completely _eradicate_ homosexuality from this or any society. But yeah, if we determine the _cause_, people will be able to selectively negate that factor during gestation or whenever, raising their kids or whatnot."

"Whatnot?" Kyle moaned, visibly upset.

"Now, come on," Frank said sternly. "You're a smart kid, surely this occurred to you."

"It occurred to me _just now_."

"Uh huh."

"You have to stop this! Oh my god, if the right wing knows what causes gayness, they'll put us all in death camps!"

"I think you're getting a little insane here."

"You don't know my life! You don't know _this town_! This country is _insane_, do you _really_ think people will just take this as an interesting factoid and move on?"

"Well, some people will."

"No! They'll try to breed it out!"

"Well, yeah, _some_ people will…"

"No one _should_!" Kyle licked at something in the corner of his mouth, and he realized he was _crying_. Or perhaps not crying, but tears were clearly flowing freely now — free enough to run all the way down in face so that he could taste them. He was incredibly put off by the idea that he would be emoting so wildly in front of Frank fucking Granger, but at this point he couldn't stop himself.

"Kyle," Frank said smoothly, trying to reach out to the boy. "We're going to help people to understand—"

Kyle pulled away. "No one understands this shit! Frank, dude — you've got to _stop_ this project."

For the second time since he met the man, Kyle saw that scary look in Frank Granger's eyes. That unstoppable, determined fire. It was the way Cartman looked, sort of, when he was onto something. It was the look his mother got when she was talking about a subject that inspired her to madness. It wasn't a look Kyle liked. He hated it.

"I'm afraid I can't stop this project, Kyle. You see, Duke has given me a grant, and if I stopped now, I'd lose that funding. Besides, I don't really want to stop. This is groundbreaking information. Do you know what sort of honor goes to the man who figures out what determines sexuality?"

"It's sick. You're going to hurt people!"

"That may be. But sometimes people have to be hurt in the name of academia."

"But you're going to hurt _me_," Kyle choked. He was actually crying, and he hated himself for crying in front of this douchebag.

"Well, sure, that kind of sucks. But what's the pain of one little boy, or even a bunch of queers, next to the triumph of science and reason?"

Kyle didn't even know what to say. He felt himself kind of sobbing on any words he attempted to spit out, and when he stood up to physically assault Frank Granger, he realized that he was in the teacher's lounge, and although there weren't any teachers around, there were a couple of security cameras. Besides, in this quivering state, he just didn't feel like throwing his weight around. He wasn't quite as angry as he was miserable.

He gathered up his backpack. "Fuck yourself in your fucking self-righteous ass, you goat-fucking book-shitter." Kyle didn't even pause to consider how ridiculous and inane this insult sounded. As he shuffled out of the room, he briefly considered turning around to scream something dramatic like "I quit!" But he figured that he didn't need to say anything. It was fairly obvious that their relationship was over.

XXX

After gym class — the second-to-last period of the day — Kyle found himself retreating from the locker room in a miserable haze. There were a few people milling around the hallway, but gym usually let out before the other classes to give students time to change. So Kyle raced out to his locker, hoping he could get in and out of there before the main hallway began to fill up with students.

He turned the dial on his combination lock carefully, sweaty gym clothes tucked under one arm. It had been several weeks since his green South Park High School T-shirt had been washed, and he thought it was beginning to smell sort of rancid.

After stashing his clothing in his backpack, Kyle felt someone touch his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah," he sighed. "Hold on."

"I don't have a lot of time here, Kyle." Cartman's voice had never rung clearer in Kyle's ears; Kyle nearly jumped when he turned to see his arch-nemesis (as arch as a nemesis could get in 11th grade, anyhow) standing behind him, arms crossed.

"Jesus!" Kyle cried out. "Don't sneak up on me, you son of a bitch. What the hell do you want?"

"What did Granger say when you talked to him?" Cartman asked.

"Um." Kyle paused for a moment. "How do you know I was talking to Frank Granger?"

"Oh, puh-lease," Cartman drawled. "You are so predictable. Like it wasn't obvious that you would run and whine to your pimp about your _feelings_."

"Ugh!" Kyle snapped his lock closed and slammed his locker shut. "Just why the hell can't you leave me alone, Cartman? I hate you, you hate me, why isn't that good enough for you?"

"Because," Cartman said sinisterly, eyes narrowing. "Because, Kyle, I hate you. I hate you, and every moment of your pain is the most intense pleasure for me. Every little thing that goes wrong in your life is 10 things going right in mine. I just want to look into your pretty green eyes and see your fragile little heart breaking."

"Huh. Well, you're going to need to come up with something a lot more convincing than that 'dirty Jew-fag' shit. Frankly, I've heard it before."

Cartman laughed unconvincingly, and sighed. "No, all of that 'Jew-fag' stuff is merely a trifle. Oh, it _annoys_ you. But I'm convinced by now that you actually _enjoy_ being a Jew, and a fag, and I'm getting the impression that my reminding you of it doesn't hurt you at all."

"That's right."

"Isn't it great," he mused aloud, changing the subject, "that there might someday be a _cure_ for homosexuality? I mean, there might be hope for you yet, Kyle. You might be able to marry a fat bitch like your mother and have a whole family of little Jews to raise. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Homosexuality doesn't need to be cured," Kyle growled. "I like who I am, and I can have a family with anyone I want to. Now get the fuck out of my way."

Cartman didn't budge, and Kyle felt him breathing down on him. He was too tall, too strong, too solid to be moved without the kind of force that Kyle regrettably just didn't possess. "You can tell yourself that all you want, my friend, but we both know there's only one person you want to have a family with, and he couldn't possibly want you, now or ever."

"You leave him out of this," Kyle breathed, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. "You can fuck with me all you want, but leave him out of this."

"It's not like you get a choice here. I'll rag on you for whatever I want. And talking about him hurts you. He's all you ever wanted, isn't he? You just think he's perfect. You don't care that he's a mediocre football player, or that his hair is retarded. It's like a metaphor for his life, all flaccid and completely personality-less, growing down to his ears because he lacks the ambition to pick up a scissors and do something about it."

"I like his hair."

"Damn straight you would. Because it's a lot like you: If he cared enough to bother realizing that it's a detriment, he'd cut it all off." Again, Kyle tried to slip away, and this time he was actually successful. He was only a few paces down the hall, however, when he heard Cartman again.

"Hey Kyle!" he called out. "Your ass looks even huger from farther away."

Kyle stopped dead in his tracks and, with a shriek, charged back at Cartman, punching him right in the nose. Reeling, Cartman took a few steps backward. He looked at Kyle, whose fists hung slackly at his sides, mouth hanging open like a mounted fish. Then he recovered, and laughed.

"Oh, no." He was holding his nose, far more surprised than actually hurt, because he wasn't hurt at all. Clearly he was amused. "You seriously did _not_ just hit me _again_. I'm telling you, buddy, you're going to get into serious trouble one day if you don't—"

But Cartman didn't finish his sentence, because he had to dodge Kyle's foot, which was headed right toward his groin. Cartman caught the foot — it really was similar to intercepting a football — and yanked Kyle's leg out from under him. "Excuse me, sir, but you do _not_ kick Eric Theodore Cartman in the nuts!"

Kyle hit the laminate floor, shocked. He looked up and saw a small crowd beginning to gather. "That's it!" he cried, slamming his palms on the ground. "I refuse to take this shit from you any longer!" Kyle charged at Cartman, and flung himself into the larger boy.

"Oh, this is it, dude. You are fucking going _down_."

"I'll go down when I goddamn feel like it!" Kyle drew back to sock Cartman in the face again, but before he could swing a punch, he caught a fist to his mouth. Kyle stared in shock for a minute before he tried to punch again, but felt himself slammed back into the lockers behind him, with Cartman's weight pressing into his substantially smaller frame.

The group watching this fight heard a series of slaps and skin-on-skin contact as Kyle finally made a couple of successful attacks. Cartman dodged another knee-jerk to his crotch and side-swiped Kyle, who found himself hitting the lockers again. Cartman lunged at him and his face smacked against the cool metal surface. Kyle slipped and fell to the ground.

"This constitutes a hate crime," Kyle panted, struggling to get up.

"Except that you hit me first, you filthy fucking Jew! This is self-defense."

Kyle somehow managed to get back onto his feet, and he felt a little woozy. Seemingly the entire school was watching this now, and he could feel their eyes on him, assessing his performance. Bolstering his confidence, he rushed toward Cartman, fist cocked, ready to send his opponent flying.

Ironically, Cartman pulled a punch on Kyle before he could make contact. Kyle felt a fist slamming into his nose, and he stumbled backward into some male onlooker's arms.

"And don't you ever fucking hit me again!" Cartman roared, pointing at Kyle menacingly. "You're a dead man, Kyle! I will teach your horrid fucking Jew brain not to mess with me, do you understand?"

Kyle smirked to himself as he gave Cartman the finger. He felt a little dizzy. He closed his eyes.

"No," he mumbled. He opened his eyes and looked up to see whose arms he'd landed in, but at a certain point all the kids he didn't know in school became indistinguishable. Gathering all of his strength, Kyle pushed himself up again, despite the fact that someone was doing a damn good job of restraining him. "You leave my friends out of your sick games!"

With that, Kyle tried to take another hit on Cartman, but again, his reflexes were somehow lacking, and he felt the other boy grab his arm and twist the appendage around his back. Kyle screamed in agony and tried his best to slip out of the hold, but it was no use. He stumbled backward as Cartman released him and, although he knew what was coming next, failed to block himself from the final blow, which got him directly in the gut. Still from shock and barely able to breathe, he fell to the ground, hitting his head on the lockers for the last time.

"That'll learn you to respect my authority," Cartman drawled.

"Jesus, you fat fuck!" a girl's voice cried. Kyle thought it might be Wendy, because he wasn't sure who the hell else would care if he got beaten up; he didn't exactly have any female friends.

"Ay, ho," Cartman said defensively. "He hit me first!"

"Yeah, and you probably crippled him!" Definitely Wendy.

"I'm okay," Kyle tried to wheeze, but the breathless feeling was too intense, and all he could do was lie there, clutching his middle, eyes shut tightly. Maybe he could keep them closed until everyone dispersed.

"Are you all right?" a voice asked, and Kyle just kind of nodded. "You don't look all right." It sounded like Token.

"That was awesome, Eric!" some guy shouted from vaguely far away.

"Thank you," Cartman responded politely. "It was nothing. I have class."

"You rule, dude!" someone else called out.

"Please, please," Cartman was saying, but his voice faded out as he walked away.

Kyle heard and felt the shuffling of feet through the area; no one stopped to help him up or check on him again until: "Holy shit, dude!" Stan's voice, annoyed as ever.

"Look at you." That one was Kenny, definitely. Though they felt heavy, and nearly welded together, Kyle managed to get his eyes open.

"What the fuck!"

"Thank god he didn't get you in the crotch."

"Oh, shit, Kenny, that's practical."

"It's an important part of a guy's body!"

"Not nearly as important as someone's _head_."

Kyle felt a pair of arms reach around him, and he knew that Stan was hoisting him up. Now that he wasn't curled up on himself, his stomach felt a little better, although his limbs were stinging and aching. "Hi guys," he moaned. "Fancy running into you here." A few people were still passing through, and every so often a pair of eyes would glance at him.

"You look like utter shit."

"Thanks, Kenny."

"Well, it's true."

"Seriously though," Stan said, standing up. "I hope nothing's broken. Can you move everything?" Kyle stretched his legs and arms, and although it was painful, he could do it. He nodded. "Do you think you can get up?"

Kyle attempted to get himself upright, but he was having trouble using his arms to push off of the ground. "Here," said a voice, and he felt Kenny grab his arms and yank him up.

"Not so rough!"

"He can take it." Kenny patted him on the back. "You'll be fine, won't you, pal?" Kyle shrugged. "Well, that was awesome. The way you flung yourself into Cartman? Hilarious. I mean, I wish I had a camcorder on my phone. That shit would be awesome on YouTube."

"A camcorder?" Kyle asked hazily. "It would?"

"Oh, lord," Stan sighed. "I'm sure someone else caught it, those football dudes in the back were way into it."

"Chris was way into it, he adores hot guy-on-guy brutality."

"No one cares what that fucker thinks." Stan dismissed this with a wave of his hands.

"Uh," was all Kyle said in response to this discussion.

"Come on, dude," Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "We'd better get you to the nurse."

XXX

Stan and Kyle walked to the nurse's office slowly, with Stan basically supporting his limping friend. Stan didn't recall Kyle sustaining any _leg_ injuries, but he seemed, if nothing else, to be authentically in shock. They sat quietly on the chairs outside of the exam room, neither looking at or speaking to one another. Until, of course, Stan broke the silence: "You've got to hand it to Cartman."

"Yeah, you really do — no, what?" Kyle jerked about as suddenly as Stan had ever seen anything jerk in his life.

"Be careful, you'll hurt yourself," he grumbled.

"I'm already hurt, and _what_ are we handing to Cartman? In case you didn't notice, dude, that fucker just nearly _crushed my skull_, I can barely _move_."

"You're just being dramatic."

"Fuck you, dude!"

"You really want to fuck the guy who just brought you to the nurse's office?" Stan was looking directly ahead when he said this, entirely deadpan. But the weight of the irony was not lost on Kyle, who swallowed hard and said nothing to this as he continued to slump in his chair, miserable.

"Shut up while I say this, dude," Stan said suddenly and slowly after a few minutes. "You have to give him credit for being exceedingly good at what he does."

"Eat, fart, and beat people up? Yeah, he rocks all that shit. Good for him."

"No, I mean he is awesome at _pissing you off_."

"Well, no shit, Stanley. Thanks for joining us here on planet What Happened This Afternoon, I'll be your host, bleeding out of my mouth." Kyle's mouth _was_ bleeding sort of heavily from a split lip, but it was more the bruising around his eyes that was the problem.

"Oh, no way, dude," Stan sighed again. "Look, you just — ugh, don't get _pissed_ at me while I tell you this, but seriously, for a smart guy, you are such a fucking moron."

"Okay." Kyle rolled his eyes. "Care to explain that?"

"Well, yeah, I do. The next time that fat shit tries to goad you into a fight, why don't you just walk away?"

"You heard the shit he was saying about me! How much am I supposed to take?"

"Kyle, look at you!"

"What about me?"

"Well, you've been beaten pretty damn thoroughly, and furthermore, what gave you the idea that you could take on _Cartman_? He's twice your size, dude! He's a linebacker!"

"I could take him when I was 10," Kyle said weakly in his own defense.

"That was six years ago! Now he beats the shit out of people as a recreational hobby! And I don't have to tell you he's good at it!"

"I _know_."

"He provokes you to get that response. You are such a dip, dude, you just walk right into it!"

"Don't you think I know! Ow." Kyle paused, rubbing his arm. "Maybe I don't care."

"Well, then, tell me, Kyle, _please_, what the hell is it that you care about?"

Kyle began to answer this question with a hesitant "I," but he was interrupted when a blue-and-black blur popped into the room, visibly sweating, looking like he'd run from somewhere.

"I heard you were hurt," Craig panted, falling into the chair on the side of Kyle that wasn't currently dominated by Stan.

"I'm okay," Kyle sighed.

"Unless you count brain damage!" Stan countered.

"Are you alright?" Craig asked, taking Kyle's hand. "I swear to god, if you're not, I will teach that fat fuck some manners personally. I swear to god."

"I … I think I will be good."

"Your lip is bleeding pretty badly."

"Is it?"

"It's kind of nasty, dude, although I personally think it just serves to make you cuter."

"Thanks," Kyle purred. He immediately felt awkward about purring around Stan, and both he and Craig glanced at the other boy, who was, indeed, kind of gaping at them disbelievingly.

"What?" Craig spat bitterly. "Can't take it, straighty?"

"What are you talking about," was all Stan said, voice low.

"Don't you have football practice?" Craig asked, making a lewd jerking gesture for no particular reason.

"Yeah," Stan confirmed. "Yeah, I fucking do. See you around, Craig." To Kyle, he added: "I'll call you … sometime."

"Call me tonight and see how I'm feeling," Kyle suggested, batting his eyelashes. He felt Craig kind of squeeze his hand.

"You'll be _fine_," Craig insisted, extending the long-I sound in 'fine.' "Just fucking awesome." Stan regretted that he could hear this even as he exited the room.

XXX

"I know that filthy Jew strung you along," Cartman was saying, eyes blazing in earnest, hands clasped together on the table. "But I'm not like that. He's entirely unstable. Frankly, I doubted his commitment to the project from the beginning."

"How am I supposed to know this isn't some ridiculous ploy?" the man asked, using a napkin imprinted with the word 'Harbucks' to wipe the lid of his coffee. "I don't have that much money. I can't live in a hotel here forever. If this thing doesn't pan out I'm fucked, so I don't have a lot of time. So if you're just stringing me along, too, kid—"

"You're living in a hotel? You poor man! Come stay with us! My mother and I love having guests."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, we're very hospitable at the Cartman house."

"Your name is Cartman?"

"Yes, that's right. Eric Cartman." Cartman leaned back and produced a card from his jeans pocket. All it said was "Eric Theodore Cartman" followed by a phone number.

"Huh." Granger studied the card, pocketing it. "Broflovski said you were gay."

"He did?" Frank Granger nodded. "Well, I am," Cartman said brightly. "And I'm totally committed to this research. I am willing to do _anything_ to help you, with no strings attached whatsoever."

"There must be a string. No one is this enthusiastic to hang out with academics."

"No string! I'm just so interested in working with you is all. That's all I'll get in return. Helping to further this important project. People need to _know_, dammit. The agony of uncertainty! It is just so damned unfair."

Frank pushed up his hideous glasses and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Huh." His eyes were downcast, avoiding Cartman's. "Your offer to help sounds intriguing." He said this slowly, still looking at the table, or his lap. Cartman was unsure which it was. "You don't really seem … _gay_ to me."

"Oh, yes. I can see how you'd think that, considering that I'm so ruggedly masculine and all. But I assure you, Mr. Granger, I am a _total_ fag."

"Well, you don't seem all that faggy to me," Frank Granger sighed. "But then, who am I to judge? Tell you what: If you can believably convince me you're gay, I'll use you. Deal?"

"Of course, of course!" Cartman enthused, reaching out to shake Frank's hand. Frank didn't take it. Cartman sheepishly withdrew. "You won't regret this, Mr. Granger. Not one bit."

"I'd better not, boy." Granger stood and removed his messenger bag from the chair it was slung over. "Tomorrow, here, same time. Bring me some proof that you're gay, and I'll let you in."

"Proof that I'm … gay."

"Well, yeah. I don't know, a testimonial, hair product. Whatever you guys do. Tomorrow. Same time." Frank extended a hand. "It was nice meeting you, Eric," he said congenially, his grasp tight. "I look forward to working together."

"You won't regret this, Mr. Granger." Cartman tapped his fingers on the table as Frank left the shop. He took a sip of the coffee the man had left sitting on the table. "Oh, blow me," he moaned. "How the hell am I supposed to prove I'm gay?"

A woman at the next table shrugged, and Cartman gave her the finger. "Burn in hell, you old bitch," he said casually, getting up to leave. He left Frank's coffee cup where it was.


	4. Chapter 4

The banging on the door had become too loud to tolerate any longer. The Stotches looked at each other across the dinner table and then at their son, and both of them were frowning.

"Butters! If this incessant knocking is in any way your fault," Mr. Stotch threatened, pointing a greasy knife at his son.

"I swear I don't know anything about it," Butters claimed.

"Are you sure?"

"Honest!"

"Maybe he's telling the truth," Mrs. Stotch suggested, daintily cutting herself a piece of Welsh rarebit.

"I am!"

"It's been going on for 10 minutes now!"

"I know, Dad!"

"Well, Butters, why don't you go get the door?" Mrs. Stotch suggested civilly.

"But you come right back to finish your dinner!" her husband added.

"I will." Butters slithered out of his chair and pulled up his pants, which had a tendency to slip down a little too far.

As he was walking from the dinner table, he heard his father order him, "And do something about those pants!"

"I will," he moaned. "I'd more like to do something about you first," he muttered under his breath. He paused for a moment, pretty sure that his father would overhear, but since nothing was screamed after him, Butters assumed he was in the clear.

As he got up to the door, he didn't just hear the pounding, he saw the door physically shaking. He was certain he could perceive the point of impact, and the vibrations radiating out from that spot. But no, that was stupid; he was just being paranoid again, seeing what wasn't there; what could never be seen.

"Hold your horses," he muttered, unlatching the door. He was slammed in the face when it flew open, and he toppled over in shock. "Aw, gee," he moaned, rubbing his cheek. "That smarts." Before he could get another word out he felt himself yanked off the floor by the collar of his shirt and shook, fiercely.

"Butters! Butters, thank god it's you. Butters, I need you help!"

"Eric?"

"There's no time, Butters! Say you'll help me!"

"Let go of me," Butters growled, pushing on Cartman's chest.

"Fine." Cartman let go of Butters' powder-blue T-shirt and he fell on his ass, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

"What's the big idea?"

"Shut up, Butters, I need your help." Cartman began to pace back and forth in front of the door, which he paused to shut.

"But my parents—"

"There's no time for that now." He stopped pacing and turned to Butters. "Listen to me very carefully. We're dating now Butters, okay. You are my boyfriend."

It hit the blonde boy like a sandbag full of cocaine smacking him in the face. "I'm your what?"

"My boyfriend, Butters. We are dating." Cartman grabbed Butters by the shoulders and shook him. "Do you hear me Butters? This is very important. Repeat after me: I am your boyfriend."

Butters looked shocked, and Cartman was about to smack him, but he felt the smaller boy pull him into a tight embrace. "Oh, Eric!" he exclaimed, burying his face in Cartman's letterman jacket.

"Oh … yeah," Cartman said confusedly, not returning Butter's hug.

"Gosh, I've been waiting so long for this. I can't wait to tell everyone at school."

"Everyone … at … school."

Butters pulled away. "Come on!" he grabbed Cartman's hand and tried to yank him deeper into the house, past a point of no return.

"Come … where? Where are we going, again?"

"Well, we gotta go tell my parents. We were eating dinner when you came, and my dad was annoyed by all the knocking. I didn't want to open the door but I did, and wow, am I so glad I did." He jumped in place and clapped his hands. "Come on, silly!"

Cartman suddenly felt that this was a bad idea. But before he could react, Butters had grabbed his hand and was yanking him along through the living room and to the dinner table, where Mr. and Mrs. Stotch were sitting.

"Butters!" his father shouted, pounding a fist on the table. "Where the hell have you been? Your mother cooked you this dinner, and it's getting cold."

"Oh, hello, Eric," Mrs. Stotch said warmly.

"Hi, Mrs. Stotch. Mr. Stotch."

"Mom, Dad," Butters said excitedly. "I got something to tell you. Eric and I are in love!" he let go of Cartman's hand and clenched his fists, barely able to contain his excitement.

"You are?" Butters' mother asked.

"Yeah, it was him knocking at the door, and he asked me to be his boyfriend!"

"You?" Mr. Stotch asked. "Boyfriend?"

"Yeah, yeah!" Butters was bouncing on his feet now.

"Oh, Butters!" His mother got up and rushed over to him, taking him into her arms. "My little boy! We're so happy for you!"

"You … want to date him?" Mr. Stotch asked, looking at Cartman incredulously.

"Uh—" Cartman began.

"Why are you saying that like no one would ever want to date me?" Butters asked from behind his mother's hair.

"Well, son, maybe if you got those pants fixed I'd have an easier time believing it."

"This doesn't have anything to do with my pants!" Butters protested. His mother was still clinging to him.

"Our little boy, our little boy," she was … was she weeping? Cartman hoped like hell that she wasn't, because even though other people's pain was generally bliss, that would just be too damn weird, even for him.

Mr. Stotch got up out of his chair and stalked over to his trembling wife and elated-looking child, who were still huddled together like something out of an Anne Rice novel. "Well, son," he said, his eyes wide with amusement. "We're proud of you." He ruffled Butter's hair.

"But … he didn't do … anything." Cartman felt like a complete idiot standing there, watching this entire thing unfold before him like a bad joke.

"Oh, I forgot about you," Mr. Stotch said, pulling Cartman into a tight, manly embrace. Actually, it was a little too manly for Cartman's comfort. He shuddered, but Butters' dad didn't notice this. "I guess you're part of the family now," he said awkwardly.

"I am?" Cartman asked. Mrs. Stotch let go of Butters, who massaged the spot on his arm were she had been gripping him with her well-manicured nails. Cartman noticed that the shirt was a little ripped. And bloody. What the fuck?

"Of course," she said. She went over to the table and pulled out a chair, indicating that he should sit down. "Anyone who loves our son—"

"—despite his glaring faults—"

"Gee, Dad." Butters rolled his eyes.

"—is welcome to join us at the table." Cartman was pretty sure this was figurative _and_ literal. He glanced toward Butters, who was now doing a happy little jig to himself like he'd just won the lottery, or personally feasted on the entrails of his nemesis. Cartman sighed.

"What is that?" he asked critically, pointing at the shallow casserole dish on the table.

"Why, that's my mom's Welsh rarebit. It's her specialty."

"It comes with a side of peas," she added helpfully, nodding beatifically.

"Blech, peas. Well, um, what is this Welsh rarebit you speak of?"

"Bread covered in cheese."

Cartman shrugged. "Okay." He sat himself in the offered chair and smiled at Butters, who sat down next to him. "I really think this is going to work out awesome, Butters." He helped himself to a serving of rarebit.

"Me too." Butters was positively glowing, swinging his legs under the table. "I have never been so happy in my life."

"That's super." The rarebit wasn't too bad. It was basically toasted bread covered in Velveeta. Cartman enjoyed that particular cheese food product, so he ate it happily, trying to ignore all of the people around him.

"Who wants a glass of seltzer water?" Mr. Stotch asked, pointing creepily at Cartman.

Far be it for a guy with a mother who was really his father who was trying to trick a researchy guy from Duke into thinking he was gay in order to piss off his faggy Jew enemy by dating a kid referred to by the name of a dairy product to say, but damn. The Stotches were fucking _weird_.

XXX

"What what _what_?" Kyle's mother screeched upon seeing him stumble into the house. "You look like you fell into a cement truck!"

"Uh, yeah. I fell down a flight of stairs," he lied, trying to escape as quickly as possible, before he was buried underneath questions he either didn't want to or couldn't answer.

"Don't lie to me!" she cried, grabbing him by the arm as he tried to make a mad dash upstairs. "Here, come to the kitchen."

"I don't know, Mom, I have work to do."

But she wouldn't relent. She dragged him into the kitchen, where she was cooking something Kyle knew he wouldn't eat for dinner anyway. She pulled out a chair and stuck her hands in a bowl of … something. "Sit," she said pleasantly, nodding toward the chair. She caught him wrinkling his nose and she sighed. "It's only meatloaf."

"Yeah, okay."

There were a few moments of awkward silence while Sheila Broflovski kneaded ground meat and raw egg in a large mixing bowl. When she was done, she removed her hands and wiped them copiously on a dishtowel that had been sitting on the table. "Well?" she asked expectantly, putting down the towel.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened?"

"Uh, no. I'm not that dumb."

"Can I guess?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

"Kyle," she sighed, seating herself next to him at the kitchen table. She took his hand, and he felt for a moment like refusing to touch her grubby paw, knowing full-well it was covered in raw meat and raw eggs and who knew what the hell else. But she was his mother, and he couldn't refuse her. "I am your mother," she said carefully, as if this was a thing he needed to be reminded of. "I know you better than anyone." This he really doubted, considering how little she understood him, or what he wanted. He narrowed his eyes and rested his head in his hand, daring her to make the next move

"Who hurt you?" she asked pointedly.

"What? How the hell do you know?"

"I can tell when my son has been fighting. Who attacked you? If it's something serious…" She lowered her voice until it was husky, full of concern. "If it's because of who you are, bubbelah, you have to tell me."

"Actually," he said, a smile creeping onto his face, "I attacked them."

"What?" She swiftly let go of him and slapped his hand. "Kyle!"

"Jesus! You'd think I'd been hit enough for one day."

"You attacked someone?"

"Yeah, but they deserved it."

"Was it Eric Cartman?"

"Uh … no."

"Okay. Well." She ruffled his hair carefully, clearly seeing through his less-than-masterful deception. "You're a good boy. Only hit people who deserve it." She got up and opened the refrigerator, getting out a carton of orange juice. She poured it into a tall glass and stood in front of the table holding the cup, her face an emotionless blank. Kyle eyed it suspiciously, wondering if it was for him or what she was thinking. Slowly, however, she took a sip, and sat back down. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Stan took me to the nurse."

"Good," she said succinctly. "What else happened at school today?"

"Oh, nothing," he said blandly, really hoping she would dismiss him. He thought he heard some footsteps somewhere, but they didn't sound particularly close so he ignored that. "I turned in my lit paper."

"Ohhh." She said this in a long, drawn-out way, without much interest in her voice. "And what was that on?"

Kyle started to say something, beginning with, "Well, it was," but he didn't get to finish because a 10-year-old boy stomped into the room, making sure to produce as much noise as humanly possible.

"Cool!" the boy exclaimed, rushing over to Kyle. "You got maimed!" The boy reached out to touch his brother, but Kyle slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he growled.

"Mom," Ike pleaded.

"Ike, don't touch your brother. Kyle, be nice."

"I am nice."

"He touches me!"

"Well, you touch my stuff," Kyle rationalized, like this was any kind of conclusive argument for the propriety of inflicting physical pain on one's sibling.

"Behave," Sheila advised, picking up a wooden spoon on the table. "Both of you."

"What happened to you?" Ike panted. "Were you fighting? Who did you fight with? Can I fight them? I just learned the death grip in krav maga. We should try it! You don't _really_ die."

"That's not a real thing." Kyle turned to his mother and cleared his throat, trying to pry her attention away from whatever she was doing to those potatoes with that spoon. "Mom, I'm going to get my cell out of the car."

"Fine, fine." She waved him away with her spoon, and he joyfully sprang out of his seat and sprinted out of the kitchen, out of the house, and down the path to the street, where his car was sitting. It was a brand-new Jetta, given to him for his 16th birthday. Initially, it had been sparkling white. Now, sadly, it was ashy gray thanks to the many months since he got it, during which Kyle had not found a single chance to have it washed or, as his father suggested, wash it himself. The black sludge that cars in South Park were subjected to didn't help matters.

Digging his key out of his front pocket, Kyle opened the door and popped into the driver's seat. He yanked his phone out of its charger and frantically checked it for missed calls. Sure enough, in the time he'd been sitting in the kitchen, he'd missed three. Smiling widely, he pocketed the phone and slammed the door of his car shut, running back up the path to his door, and charging up the stairs. He heard Ike call out his name as he dashed down the hall, but he easily ignored this, smiling to himself all the way.

Hopefully, Kyle flipped open the cell and pressed "view." To his dismay, he had indeed missed three calls — all from Craig. His smile fell. He threw his cell phone on his bed in disappointment, and sat down next to it, sighing. He remembered that his backpack was still downstairs. Sighing deeper, almost dramatically, he picked up his phone and angrily dialed a number, eschewing the directory altogether.

It rang and it rang, and Kyle was willing to believe that Stan was pissed at him from earlier, and probably not picking up the phone on purpose. These thoughts briefly inspired grand ideas of furious voicemails, some of which might entail the words "breeder" and "shit-eating" and "worst friend ever." But Kyle's angry messages were preempted when the owner of the phone picked up after five rings.

"Hey," Stan Marsh began, but Kyle cut off whatever the hell Stan was planning on saying.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked breathlessly, lying flat on his back.

"Uh. I had, um, practice," Stan replied. "You know, like I do."

"Well, what time did this practice end?"

"Uh, like half an hour ago. I'm actually standing in my room totally naked. I just got back."

"Naked."

"Yeah, no clothes."

This information had what could either be considered a glorious or adverse effect on Kyle, and he flipped himself over in his bed, although why he did this was uncertain, seeing as there was no one else in his room except Stan's disembodied voice on the phone, and Stan would never know what information like that was capable of doing to the wrong party. "Well, it would have been nice if you'd called me," Kyle said slowly.

"Well, how do you know I wasn't going to? I mean, I just got home."

"Well, were you?"

"Does it matter?" Stan asked, annoyed. "Dude, you need to chill out. You're being freaky."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah you are."

"I just think it would be nice if my best friend would call me, you know, see how I'm doing, that kind of thing."

"Well, how do you know I wasn't?"

"Well, you didn't!"

"Oh, dude, no way. I am standing naked in my room, fucking filthy, waiting to get into the shower, and the phone rang, and do you really think I would bother picking up if it was anyone but you?"

"I don't know!"

"Okay, you know what? I'm going to take a shower now. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Jesus, Stan, you can go—"

But Stan didn't hear where he could go, because he flipped the phone shut and held it in his hand for a moment, staring at the floor. "That fucker," he growled, tossing the phone straight up into the air. He didn't stay to watch it drop to the ground, hitting the carpet with a soft thump.

XXX

At lunch on Tuesday, Kyle had an agenda. Instead of getting any food, he went directly to the table, where he found _Christophe_ and Pip eating chocolate pudding and peering down at a magazine together. Well, Pip was eating chocolate pudding. Christophe was chewing on an unlit cigarette, and he had another one behind his ear.

"Hello," Pip said casually, looking up. "Long time no chat."

"Um, yeah." Kyle didn't really want to chat with Pip. "Where is everyone?"

"Getting some lunch from the commissary, I'll wager."

"Although why any self-respecting faggot would want any of that fucking shit is fucking inexplicable." It occurred to Kyle that he no longer knew what that English piece of crap was talking about, if he meant the word 'faggot' in the colloquial or the literal sense or what.

"Right," he said, kind of dragging out the long I.

Soon enough, other guys started turning up at the table. First Thomas arrived, and then Token, and so on. The group began to idly chatter amongst themselves, although Kyle thought a few of them were checking out his wounds, which had apparently been marinating overnight. Soon enough, he saw Craig make his way over to the table only shove over Jason, whose jacket was already on the chair next to Kyle.

"Hey," he said nasally, putting down his tray. "I called you last night."

"You did?"

"Yeah, like four times."

"Oh, sorry."

"It's cool. I just wanted to see if you were okay, maybe you wanted me to come over and lick your wounds or something."

"That would have been nice," Kyle mumbled, not sure if he wanted that or not.

"Where's your food?"

"I'm not hungry." Kyle pulled out his chair and sat down, wondering how to get the attention of his friends. He looked around the table and saw that there were a couple of empty chairs, but he wasn't sure it mattered who was missing, if someone was. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed the fork out of Craig's hand and banged down on the table.

"Hey!" Craig yelped, flipping Kyle off before making a sorry attempt to grasp at his utensil.

"There is a really serious problem," he began. "You see, there was this guy."

"Oh, fucking shit," Christophe drawled. "Do not bore me with your pedestrian tales of love."

"No!" Kyle shouted. "No, that's not what this is. He's a professor guy. From Duke." Pretty sure he had the audience's attention, he told the short story of Frank Granger, and his project, and what Kyle supposed it meant for homosexuals everywhere.

When he was done, he looked up, expecting a rally of support or something. A few people were staring at him blankly or even annoyed, but a handful had actually gone back to eating or talking, clearly not interested in what Kyle had to say.

"So?" Craig asked, wiping his nose in the sleeve of his blazer.

"You … you guys don't _care_?"

"Not really," Token said.

"I'm not an American citizen," Pip declared. "No offense, but it doesn't matter to me what they do to homosexuals in this country."

"This country is fucking shit."

"I'll second that and I totally live here," Craig agreed.

"Technically, you're thirding it," someone else pointed out. Craig responded, as was his way, with his middle finger.

"I'm serious about this, you guys," Kyle moaned. "Crazy, freaky shit could happen to us!" He paused, and when he didn't get any response, he repeated the phrase "crazy freaky shit" and waggled his fingers.

"Well, okay," Craig said slowly. "Suppose we should listen to you, and you're right, and Frank Whoever is out to get all the fags."

"That's not quite what I said."

"Whatever, whatever. What I'm saying is, if we listen to you, great, but what are we going to do about it?"

"Do?"

"Um, yeah, r-tard." Craig rolled his eyes.

"If this is really a problem — cock! — we should really do something about it."

"Oh. Well, honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Well," said Mark quietly. "You should really consider weighing your options and forming a conclusive plan of action before demanding a response from your audience."

"Huh?"

"He means you need a plan," Token interpreted.

"I get what he means," Kyle moaned. "I just don't get why you guys don't care."

"I just don't know what we're supposed to be caring about." Token went back to eating his pot pie.

"I'm talking about the end of homosexuality! If Frank Granger, and his study, manage to determine what _causes_ people to be gay, then people be able to use that information to _stop_ being gay, and then no one will ever be gay again!"

"Everyone is a faggot," Christophe sneered. "God himself is a faggot. You cannot breed the faggots out of society."

"Yes, you can, you English piece of crap," Kyle shot back. "You can and _they_ will!"

"Who is they?" Craig asked.

Kyle just put his head in his hands. "You guys…"

Kyle felt Craig's hand on his back, slowly moving in a comforting, circular pattern. Kyle was used to shoving Craig off of him in public, but now for some reason he welcomed the other's boy's touch. It was reassuring, and all he really wanted was to be reassured. "I'm listening," Craig said softly. "We're listening." Craig shot the rest of the table a glance to ensure that yes, they would listen.

Kyle lifted his head and looked at his peers, who were all focused on him, except for Christophe, who had gone back to reading his magazine. He was still chewing on that cigarette, and it was now bent where the filter met the tobacco.

He spoke slowly, eyes turned down so that he was staring at the table, not paying attention to his audience. "They'll round us up. They'll put us in camps. They'll breed it out of the population. You guys don't understand, you don't know. You don't know what it's like to be a _minority_."

"I resent that!"

"Sorry, Token. I … you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I think you're a self-absorbed prick. Comparing being gay _now_ to 1930s Europe. It's insane. I know you people had to go through shit, but so did we. And actually, so does everyone. Things are good now."

"But they weren't _always_."

"Whatever, I don't need this shit." Token stood up, grabbed his bag, and stalked off.

"You do not seem to be making a lot of friends with your paranoid delusions." Christophe turned the page of his magazine, still not looking at Kyle.

"I'm not sure this day could get any worse," he moaned to Craig. Craig gave him a sympathetic smile and touched his hand again. Kyle smiled back.

"Hey fellas!" A bright little voice sounded out behind Kyle, and he turned around to stare up at Butters, looking perky as ever, if not more so, in his black T-shirt. Said shirt bore the dubious statement "I'm the prettiest woman ever." Pretty though he may have been, Kyle thought that "ever" was perhaps an overstatement, and that gawky, graceless Butters should not even be joking about being a woman.

But before Kyle could make a snide remark about the shirt, he saw something infinitely more frightening than a misrepresentative shirt: Eric Cartman.

Cartman had Butters' arm in a tight grip, and Kyle instinctively recoiled. "Jesus, Butters! What is he doing with you?"

"I'm not doing anything with him—"

"We're in love!"

"You're…" Kyle didn't know what to say. "You're … _what_?"

"We're dating!" Butters said exuberantly.

"Oh, oh no. Oh, hell no. Butters, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"There's, there's nothing, I'm—"

"Chill, dude." Craig was stroking his hand. "Take a breath or something."

"I don't need a breath. This is insane!"

Up until this point, Cartman had just been standing there gripping Butters' arm, and Kyle had been too intent on staring at Butters in a combination of disgust and confusion to give Cartman a second glace. But he did now, and was honestly surprised — although really, he shouldn't have been — to see that Cartman was clad in black skinny jeans, some kind of tailored hoodie over his T-shirt, and an anemic scarf with sick-looking little tassels draped casually around his neck. The whole look made Kyle shudder, but while he was grimacing distractedly Cartman decided to speak to him.

"Oh, hi, Kyle." He slurred the name as annoyingly as he could manage. "Gee, that's some lovely eye makeup you have on. I've always said, blue was your color. As in, black and blue? It looks just _great_ on you though, really." As Cartman spoke he kind of swished one hand around dramatically while his other hand held onto his elbow. Again, this made Kyle gag. It was like being trapped in the Twilight Zone, except the open door led to his gag reflex.

"You guys are dating now?" Craig asked Butters.

"Yeah, we are! Isn't it just super?"

"No," Craig replied.

"This table is filled to faggot-bitch capacity," Christophe declared. He licked his thumb despite the fact that a disintegrating cigarette was still hanging out of his mouth, and he turned the page on his periodical.

"Oh, there's always room for one more," Pip countered.

"This is _Cartman_!" Kyle cried out, throwing his hands up. "Look at him!"

Cartman let go of Butters and put his shoulder bag — since when did he own a shoulder bag? — over a chair. "If I'm going to sit here at lunch, Kyle, the least we could do is attempt to be civil to each other."

"Um, no, that's okay." He popped out of his seat. "Screw you, fat ass. I'm out of here."

As out of there as Kyle got, however, was across the cafeteria. "I cannot stand that fucktard!" he exclaimed, slamming his ass into a chair. Tweek, Kenny, Stan, and Clyde all looked up from their conversation, whatever that had been about.

"Jesus! Don't sit next to me, you'll give me AIDS! Ah!" Tweek threw his fork into the air hysterically, and it narrowly missed a girl sitting behind him as it fell back down.

"Who's a fucktard?" Clyde asked.

"Oh, it's Cartman." Kenny rolled his eyes. He subconsciously touched a cigarette tucked behind his ear, making certain it was still present. "It's _always_ Cartman, so don't even ask."

"What'd he do now?" Stan asked, balling up his napkin and throwing it down on his plate, which had obviously been a pot pie at one point. Stan didn't eat mushrooms, however, so little gravy-covered chunks of mushroom littered his tray.

"I'll tell you all about it," Kyle said, batting his eyelashes, "if you leave here with me."

"All right," Stan said slowly. "All right, fine. I'll see you after school, Kenny, okay."

"Oh, no you won't."

"Oh-kay, fine, I won't." Stan got up and grabbed his tray, and Kyle happily bounced out of the lunchroom after him.

XXX

They wandered around the school silently for a few minutes, Stan leading the way. Finally, the reached the wooden double-doors of the library. "Here okay?" Stan asked, indicating the entrance.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," Kyle panted, not really knowing why he felt so lightheaded.

Stan found a table that was pretty secluded; it was by a window that overlooked the field, which was typically muddy from the combination of melting snow and students trampling over it during gym class.

"So tell me," he said, sitting down. "What'd he do now?" Stan pulled out a three-ring binder, ostensibly so that people would think he and Kyle were studying.

"It's not just him."

"Well, what did he do?"

"Well, apparently he and Butters are dating."

Stan didn't flinch at this. In fact, he continued to stare at Kyle, hands in his lap. "Yeah."

"You know about this?"

"Well, I have trig with Butters," Stan said. "Also Cartman showed up at my house last night and started asking me if my sister had any pansy scarves he could borrow."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Well, you know, do you think he's, like … up to something?" Kyle asked. He was wringing his hands together while he spoke.

"It's Cartman, of course he's up to something."

"Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"We?" Stan asked. "We are going to do _nothing_. He's not worth my time."

"But not mine?"

"Apparently, yeah, considering you keep giving it to him."

"But what about Butters?"

"Butters is a fucking moron," Stan said casually. "He'll figure it out. Besides, you don't give a crap about Butters."

"But, _Cartman_."

"But what _about_ Cartman? How old are you, 2? Just ignore him, dude."

"I can't!"

Stan sighed and placed his hands flat on the table. "Is this all you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No, I'm fucking pissed off at the guys, too."

"Oh." This piqued his interest. "What about the guys?"

"Well, they don't care that this inherently homophobic thing is going on right under their noses."

"That sucks."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"I don't know what you want from me, dude." Stan drummed his fingers on the table briefly. "Just tell me what you _want_."

Kyle moaned and fidgeted in his seat, which had suddenly become excessively uncomfortable. "I don't know," he croaked. "I just thought, you know, you're my friend, you'll help me."

"Yeah, fine, help you _what_? What do you want from me, Kyle?" Stan narrowed his eyes. "Tell me what you want from me and I'll help you."

Kyle's mouth twitched, and he squeezed his eyes together. "I don't know!" he sobbed, burying his head in his arms. "No one can help me!"

"Aw, aww." Stan reached out and awkwardly patted Kyle's frizzy hair. "Come on, dude. Don't cry."

"But you won't help me," he continued to warble.

"Help you do what? I don't understand, I don't understand. You just keep saying you want something from me, what the hell does that mean?"

"Help me stop Cartman!"

"I don't even know what he's doing," Stan said.

"Then help me stop Frank Granger."

"He's just some lame-ass academic dipshit from North Carolina. What harm could he possibly do?"

"Nobody understands," Kyle said sadly, one hand now fiddling with the zipper of his backpack, where he was hoping to find some tissues.

"What am I supposed to understand?"

"You're not gay so you don't understand. Those other guys, when they came out, they … they … well, it wasn't the same for them. When I figured out I was gay I was 11."

"I know, I know," Stan sighed, and his voice bore the annoyance of someone who had not only heard a particular story before, but lived through it as well.

"Well, you know what kind of hell it was, having to be in that place all by myself. Now, people come out, no one even flinches. But it was hard for me, and no one else was there for me."

"I was there for you," Stan said quietly. He lowered his head briefly. Kyle, who was still sniffling to himself, did not look into Stan's eyes and see the look of genuine hurt. "You just make it so damn hard to be there," Stan continued.

"Well." Kyle's words were tentative, and they felt like he was trying on a new pair of shoes, testing them out to see if they'd begin to hurt his feet if he kept them on for too long. "Maybe you can't be there, because you have football and you — you like _girls_, and you just don't _know_ how it is."

Stan lifted his head with a sharp jerk and scowled. "Okay, that is just nuts." He brushed some hair out of his eyes. "I guess I should be sorry that I can't understand you like your little gay friends do. Next time you want to moan to someone, try that British shithead, or you know what? Try Craig. I'm sure he can make you feel better."

"Why are you saying that?"

"I hate you when you get like this," Stan said disgustedly, rising and scooping his three-ring binder off the table.

"Like what?" Kyle sniffed, wiping one of his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"You know."

"I most certainly do not!" Kyle hissed.

"Um, you know, you're all defensive and moody, and … and weepy."

"Yeah? Well, I hate you when you hate my girly emotions. Are you afraid of them? They make you uncomfortable?"

"Well, no, but…" Stan thought about this for a moment. "Okay, you're crying in the library during lunch period. No one broke up with you. You didn't fail a test. I mean, I want to help you but your reactions are just … well, they're scary."

"This is a big deal to me!"

"I know."

"Or did you forget because you're the quarterback?"

"This has nothing to do with my sexuality."

"Well, it has everything to do with mine," Kyle shot back, wiping some snot from his nose with his hand.

"Okay, you know what? I get that this is hard for you, and that you came out way before the other guys, and they don't understand what it's like in an environment where, like, not everybody's gay. But lay off them, because you're acting fucking scary and it won't help your cause. And seriously, lay off _me_. I'm your friend, Kyle. I just don't know how to deal with this." With that, Stan began to walk out of the library.

"Deal with this, Stan!" Kyle screamed, throwing one of his balled-up tissues at his departing friend. It fell a few feet from Kyle's chair and made a lackluster landing on the ground. "God dammit," he sighed to himself, wiping his eyes again.

XXX

Kyle was furious — furious — as he stormed to his locker. God damn that asshole Stan, and fuck those bitches he sat with at lunch. Once again he was alone, right back at the start where he always was. He became even more agitated when he saw, from a distance, that someone had stuck something to his locker. Why didn't anyone understand that he just wanted to be left alone? Why did Cartman have to be in Latin with him?

Kyle tore the flyer off of his locker and looked it over. It was an invitation to next month's Spring Fling, which was being put together by the social committee. Not caring — the person he'd like to go with would never go with him, anyway — he crumpled it up and tossed it on the ground.

"Now, that isn't very nice."

Kyle turned around and nearly slammed himself back into his locker when he saw Butters standing there, arms crossed. "Someone worked real hard on that flyer, and you're just going to throw it on the floor?"

"Someone really wasted their time, then."

"Oh, that's not very nice."

"Why should I give a fuck about being nice? No one's nice to _me_."

"I think everyone's pretty nice to you," Butters said. "And what's more, I'm on the social committee. Aw, heck, I'm the president of the social committee. And I made that flyer."

Kyle looked at the balled up thing on the floor, and kind of nudged it with his foot. "It was nice," he said sheepishly. "Nice job, Butters."

"Oh, you don't mean that. You're just saying it. But to make up for it, you can do me one little favor." Butter's tongue stuck out of his mouth while he fished something out of his back pocket. "I know you've got Latin next period with Eric and all, so … would you mind giving this to him?" Butters proffered a folded-up piece of notebook paper with the cheery label "To Eric! Love Butters! XOXOXO!" and every last "O" was in the shape of a heart.

"I, um…"

"It's a love note!" Butters gushed the obvious.

"Yeah, uh, Butters, here is the thing: I'm not sure I should be giving anything to that bastard."

"Hey! I'll thank you not to talk about my boyfriend that way."

"Yeah, well, here's the thing with that: Are you really sure you want to date Cartman? I mean, you know … can you really trust him?"

"Why the heck wouldn't I?"

"Butters! It's Eric fucking _Cartman_!"

"I know," Butters sighed. "Isn't he just so … ?"

"No, he's, ugh, why do you do this to me? Butters, what is wrong with my face?"

"Well, it looks like you ran into a door or something, my mom sometimes has that problem too."

"Yeah, that fa—I mean, your _boyfriend_ beat me up. In the hallway yesterday."

"He did? That doesn't sound like my Eric."

Kyle slapped his forehead. "I am going to forgive the fact that you said that because it's been a long, long day. But seriously, Butters, this is Eric. Fucking. Cartman. Why, why does it not occur to you that he is probably using you for some fucked-up money-making scheme?"

Butters' face became very grave. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and his upbeat attitude had been powered down. "I know everyone thinks I'm dumb." His voice was cold and detached, and this was quite unlike Butters. It certainly caught Kyle's attention. "But I've loved him for as long as you've loved Stan. I think he's very handsome. I know he's not nice, but I can't help how I feel. And when the boy I love shows up at my front door and tells me he wants me, well. What am I to do but say yes?"

"This goes beyond not nice, dude. This is _Cartman_."

"Well, we overlook people's flaws if we want them to overlook ours."

"Butters, your greatest flaw is being too naïve and trusting."

"And you have too many to count." Butters' eyebrows shot up, and a smile returned to his face. "Give Eric my love, and my note. I'm seeing him after school, we're going to meet some friend of his. He's so excited to introduce me to his friends."

"Cartman has no friends."

"Well," Butters huffed, poking Kyle in the sternum. "This might surprise you, but he does too have friends. He's friends with a Mr. Frank Granger, who we're gonna go meet after school. Just please give him my note, please, will you? I'd be ever so appreciative, I would."

Butters turned and walked away from Kyle, who was left with his arms hanging limply by his sides, the folded piece of paper barely secure in his hand. "That bastard," Kyle whispered. "That fat fucking bastard."

XXX

Kyle did indeed give Cartman his note during Latin, placing it effortlessly on the desk where Cartman has his notes and textbook spread out before him. The linebacker quirked his lips in a smile when he picked up the note, only to roll his eyes when he read the label scrawled on the front. He looked around and shoved it in his bag without any fanfare. Although he wondered what this could mean — did it have to do with the study? — Kyle quickly shook his head and turned away from Cartman as he took his book out of his bag. The entire time the teacher was scrawling notes about the superlative on the board, Kyle eyed the clock, praying that there would be a fire drill, or maybe just a fire, and not only would class prematurely end, but the school would burn down with Cartman trapped inside of it. To his great dismay this didn't happen.

XXX

When the day was finally over, Kyle felt splendidly miserable. His bristling rage toward Cartman, Stan, and his disaffected clique had dissipated, and now he was left with a hollow numbness. It was like walking in a fog of melancholy, but the figurative fog in his mind gave way to the very literal one waiting for him outside. It was a gray day in South Park; even the slowly melting piles of permafrost were gray.

He couldn't really remember what he was pissed at Stan for. He remembered exactly why he was angry at Cartman, obviously, but it greatly bothered him that he couldn't name what was troubling him in regard to his best friend. He wanted to berate himself for being so damn infatuated, and it seemed natural that he should assume that it was his fault, seeing as he'd broken that line between romantic friendship and pathetic, undue lust. But Kyle knew that he had been keeping his feelings for Stan in line for too many years for this to be a problem anymore. Well, no, it would always be a problem, but it was a problem for him and him only. The great crippling sadness of knowing that his friend couldn't return his feelings only reared its head sometimes, when Stan was out with a girl or on a date with a girl. Stan liked girls, and girls liked Stan. In a town as small as theirs, a moderately normal 16-year-old boy didn't have to try terribly hard.

Coupled with the ever-growing ranks of homosexuals, the straight males in the class got an undue amount of action. Clyde, for instance. And Cartman. Kyle shuddered, because apparently a little thing like a lack of sexual attraction to men couldn't keep Cartman from consuming all the arenas of his life like a growing malignance.

As he trudged back to the car, Kyle's mind flickered between two looming shadows: What to do about Frank Granger, and what to do about Stan. It was as if something in their relationship had shifted recently. Kyle didn't love Stan any more now than he did a year ago, though. Did Stan just hate him? It didn't make any sense.

Kyle was moderately surprised to see someone lying on the hood of his car. From the angle he approached at, he could only make out a pair of shit-kickers, but Kyle knew only one guy in the entire town who wore Doc Martens with pinstriped pants: Craig.

"I was so bored," Craig said loudly as Kyle withdrew his key from the pocket of his jeans. "I thought you'd never leave school."

All Kyle said was, "Neh."

"Give me a ride," Craig ordered, sitting up.

"To where?"

"My house, your house, Harbucks, doesn't matter. You're coming with me."

"I am?"

"Yeah," he said, opening the passenger-side door. "We have a couple hours, _Degrassi_ isn't on until later."

Kyle sat down behind the wheel. Craig sat down next to him and fastened his seatbelt. "You watch that?" Kyle asked, slightly too confused to turn the car just yet.

"Yeah, I love it. Never miss it. It's fucking hilarious. Every single kid is a whiny little shit. I want them all to die."

"So, you watch it…"

"Because I hope they'll all die. And they're all fucking hideous, too. I love it."

"Right." Kyle didn't know why this made so much sense, but it really did.

XXX

Kyle didn't want to go to Craig's house. His family was aggressively annoying. Worse than being aggressively annoying, they weren't welcoming or catering in any way. For Kyle, who had spent his entire life being welcomed graciously into the homes of his good friends (and Cartman), Craig's parents just rubbed him the wrong way. So he decided to take Craig back to his house, and if Craig wanted to leave to watch bad Canadian angst porn, he would give him a ride if he felt like it.

They crept into the kitchen, and no one was around. Kyle checked his watch, and remembered that his mother and Ike were probably at krav maga. A slow cooker was sitting on the counter, and Kyle didn't want to think about what was in there. "Do you want a drink or something?" he asked.

"Your parents aren't home?"

"Guess not."

"Can you make me a whiskey sour?" Kyle did a double take. "If you don't know how to make one it's cool, I do."

"I really don't think, uh, either of us can make that."

"What, do your parents measure their booze every night?"

"Have a Coke," Kyle said obstructively, handing Craig a can. Craig took it and the can opened with a hiss, but he didn't say 'thank you' or anything. He just stood there drinking it, and to Kyle's amazement he finished, wiped his mouth, crushed the can in his hand and handed the can back in about a minute.

"You are insatiable."

"Let's go to your room." Kyle obliged.

Upstairs, Kyle fell onto the bed and Craig sat down next to him. "What are we going to do?" he said. "What are we going to do about Frank?"

"Frank?"

"Yeah, the guy with the study."

"Right, him." Craig paused. "Why do we have to do anything?"

"Because!" Kyle barked. "We can't let him get away with this."

"What's he getting away with?"

"Finding out why people are gay."

"Why are people gay?"

"I don't know." Agitation tinged Kyle's voice. "That's what he wants to know. Frankly I don't care."

"You don't?"

"No!"

"I am so curious," Craig confessed. "I wish I knew."

"Why?" Kyle hopped off of the bed and began to pace in front of Craig, back and forth across his room, which was about 10 feet long or so. "So you could make yourself straight? Or make your children straight?"

"No, I don't want to be straight. And I hate children. I'm just, you know, curious."

"You hate children?"

"Yeah, they're noisy, dirty little fuckers."

Kyle stopped pacing for a moment and looked at his friend. "You don't want to have children?"

"Maybe if I met the right guy," Craig said thoughtfully. "But he'd have to be pretty amazing."

Kyle thought he heard a note of tension in Craig's voice, or some kind of restraint. But not wanting to pry he pressed no further, and soon enough he was back to pacing. "I've got to stop Granger. He can't do this! It's inherently homophobic. And now Cartman's helping him!"

"Cartman?" Craig asked.

"Yeah, him, that fat fucking cunt."

"He's not really fat."

"Ugh, whatever."

"I do hate him though."

"Yeah, so do I, I mean — what?"

"I said, I hate Cartman," Craig repeated. "I fucking hate him. He's a piece of crap. I hate how he walks, I hate how he talks, I hate how he treats you, and I hate how he took my topic for history presentations in seventh grade. I just fucking hate him."

Cartman's seventh grade history presentation had been on the Stonewall Riots, and how drag queens were mentally imbalanced which is why they felt it necessary to disrespect the authority of the New York City policemen that night. A psychologist had come in as part of Cartman's talk, and given the class an analysis of a drag queen's brain, or what appeared to be a drag queen's brain. Further investigation had revealed that he had been trading organs on the black market again. Kyle stopped pacing again and shot Craig a look.

"You wanted to do a report on Stonewall." Recognition crept into his voice.

"Well, yeah, I came out like the week before that."

Kyle sat back down on the bed. "So why don't you care?"

"About your Duke man? I mean, I care. In the abstract."

"Do you think you can care concretely?"

Craig blushed and lowered his head. "I care about anything you do."

"What? Why?"

"No reason." Craig was smiling stupidly, and he tilted his head to the side. "So, what is it that you want to do about this?"

"Oh." Kyle was caught off guard. He wasn't really paying attention to what Craig was _saying_; he was, however, looking into the other boy's eyes, trying to decipher that misplaced blush. "Um."

"I mean, do you want to call the school? The ACLU?"

"I don't know if the ACLU would be the right people to call." Kyle paused. "Also, they sued Stan and me a couple years back, so we're not really on good terms," he added quickly and quietly.

"I remember that." Craig nodded knowingly. "What was Stan doing with the Constitution?"

"It was a reproduction. Stan and I got off." Kyle immediately cringed at his choice of word, but Craig didn't seem to notice.

"Okay, fine. Who would you contact about this sort of this, then? GLAAD?" Kyle had to stifle a giggle at Craig's pronunciation, because when he said it he said it with a drawn-out short A and it sounded like "glaaaaaaaaaaaaahd."

"Hmm." Kyle put his arms on his knees and his head in his hands. "I guess we could just as easily go to the source."

"You mean the guy."

"His name is Frank fucking Granger."

"I wish my middle name were 'Fucking.' "

"I thought it was."

"Only in my dreams, baby."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Can you be serious for moment?"

"Yeah, I can. You know what I think would work? Strength in numbers. Maybe if you could get the entire town to show up or something, he'd be pressured to leave."

"Hey, yeah," Kyle said with a note of revelatory amazement in his voice. "Fuck, yeah, this sounds like a plan."

"What sounds like a plan?" Craig wiped his nose with his sleeve immediately after saying this.

Kyle got up off the bed, turned to Craig, and struck a glorious pose. In reality, he looked a little silly with his left leg forward, his right hand on his hip, and his other arm raised in the air triumphantly.

"Ta-da _what_?" Craig said, studying Kyle's stance. "What is your idea?"

"A protest!" Kyle clapped his hands together. "If there's anything the people in this town are willing to do, it's give entirely in to mob mentality and get really pissed about something they don't understand."

"So you think picketing will get rid of Frank Fuck."

"Yes, I certainly do!"

"And how the hell are you going to organize this little party?"

"I'm not too worried."

"And why is that?"

"Craig, dear," Kyle said gravely, grabbing one of his sitting friend's hands. "Do you have any idea who I was raised by? It's in my _blood_."

XXX

Kyle was surprised to find that Craig was more than willing to forgo reruns in order to stay and help his fledgling gay rights career. They ran out of the house to get poster board so quickly that they didn't even notice his mother lecturing Ike in the living room, and they certainly didn't stop to answer any of her questions about where they were going. When they returned to the house, she stopped Kyle by the front door to question him about where he'd run off to, and why he was slumming around with Craig, and forget that he'd ignored her, shouldn't he be doing his homework? All of her questions were forgotten, however, when Kyle told Sheila his plan to stage a rally.

"Oh!" she cried, squeezing him affectionately. "My little boy isn't just brilliant, he's proactive!"

"Please, Mom," Kyle pleaded. His voice was dripping with chagrin. "Not in front of Craig." He swore he could hear Craig snickering behind him.

"Nonsense." Sheila dismissed this with a wave of her hand. "There's nothing embarrassing about being hugged by your mother in front of your friends. Is there, Craig?"

"Yes."

"What? Did you just give me the finger, young man?"

"No."

"I think you did!"

"I didn't."

"He really didn't, Mom," Kyle sighed. "Come on, dude. Let's go back upstairs."

XXX

Kyle quickly learned that Craig was horrible at making signs. "At least they're not as boring as yours," Craig scoffed derisively, pointing at one of Kyle's lackluster 'Gay is Good' creations.

"Shut up! At least I didn't paint a dying blowfish making out with a camel on mine!"

"It's two dudes fisting each other," Craig clarified. "That one has a mohawk."

"If that looked anything like what you just described it would be much worse. So thank God it doesn't!"

"You're such a priss! Haven't you ever tried it?"

"No!" Kyle stood up and crossed his arms. "And I bet you haven't either!"

"Well, no," Craig confessed. "But we could fix that right now." He waggled his eyebrows.

"No thank you." Kyle felt himself blushing, or at least knew he was blushing. "It's midnight, though. Can I drive you home?"

"How about we walk home?"

"Back to your house?"

"Yeah."

"Dude, I have a car."

"Come on," Craig prodded. "It's nice out, and I live four blocks away. It's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"My mom would never let me go out now," Kyle lied.

"Well, just walk me." Kyle shook his head. "Come on, you _know_ you want to."

Kyle sighed and heaved his shoulders. "All right, fine! But I'm not in the mood to do anything retarded like throw rocks at Tweek's window."

Craig frowned. "But he always thinks it's his dealer coming after his toenails to even up his debts."

"Yeah, and the last time he nailed me with a balled-up pair of socks, and they weren't close to clean. So I'm going to decline."

"Fine, no riff-raff."

"Fine. Let's go."

XXX

The walk home was mostly silent, except for Craig's wheezy breathing. Kyle was used to listening intently to Stan's inhalation and exhalation, and Stan supposedly had asthma. But Stan did not make noise when he breathed; it was eerily calm, and all Kyle was usually able to hear was his soft breath expelling. He was pretty sure that he was the only person on the planet who could hear this sound.

Craig, on the other hand, sounded like a dying mule, or perhaps a fucked-up old car with an erratic motor. But other than that, South Park was remarkably quiet at night when it wasn't overrun with the out-of-the-ordinary. No cars drove by, few lights were on, and no one saw them moving down the street, Craig gleefully stomping on deposits of slush and Kyle carefully sidestepping them. It wasn't a very long walk at all, maybe 10 minutes, and they were at Craig's home not a moment too soon, and Kyle found himself following Craig to the front door.

"I really had fun," Craig said.

"What was this, a date?" Kyle asked.

Craig grabbed Kyle's hand, which was hanging effortlessly by his side. "You're great, you know."

"No, I don't know," said Kyle, narrowing his eyes.

Craig took Kyle's other hand. "Come on, dude. No one is this oblivious."

"Oblivious to what exactly?" Kyle asked. "I have to get ho—" He did not get to finish his thought, because his mouth was suddenly the victim of an unexpected assault by Craig's tongue. Kyle closed his eyes but otherwise, didn't move.

"You're not kissing back," Craig said, pulling away.

"I didn't say you could kiss me!"

"Who asks for permission?" Craig let go of Kyle's hands and grabbed his head with both hands, pulling the redhead into his face. This time, though it took a few moments, Kyle slowly began to return the gesture, carefully inserting one hand into Craig's back pocket. He gingerly began to press back on Craig's tongue, almost as if he were trying to push it out of his mouth entirely.

Craig began to push his thigh into Kyle's crotch. If Kyle had read about someone using this move in some bad online erotica, or had it described to him by a friend, he would have found it ridiculously juvenile and mundane. Now, however, in the heat of the moment — albeit a moment he didn't remember beginning and wasn't going to think about ending — he found it incredibly alluring, and as Craig kept kissing him the boy in the blue hat moved his hands to Kyle's rear, which clenched as Craig continued to rub him with his thigh.

"Whoa," Craig panted, pulling his mouth away, but continuing to knead Kyle's backside with relish. "Let's go inside."

"I," Kyle began, his breath coming in heaves. "I can't, I need to go, um, go home, my mom…"

"She's probably asleep." Craig kissed Kyle's jaw. "Just come in."

"I can't, dude. Your family…"

"They don't care." Craig took his left hand off of Kyle's ass, and removed his leg from between the other boy's thighs. He immediately replaced his thigh with his hand and began to feel Kyle's erection though his jeans. "Come," he said. "Come inside."

"I, ah, I really, you know." Kyle leaned into Craig a little more. "I can't!" his hissed, resting his head on Craig's shoulder.

"Shhh, that's okay." Craig carefully undid the button fly on Kyle's pants. "We don't need to go inside." Kyle wasn't looking, but he felt Craig's knuckles brush against him, and for a brief moment the cool (but not freezing) air was inside of his boxers, stinging at sensitive areas. Then the cold was blocked by something more intrusive: Craig's hand. Kyle let out a little whine, burying his face deeper in Craig's shoulder, the tie on his hat bonking Kyle on the bridge of his nose.

Craig was adept at this, moving carefully and stealthily up and down, pausing occasionally to give a slight grope. Kyle's mind was almost entirely blank during this experience, but that didn't mean anything was particularly clear. He could only focus on Craig's hands, one of which was inside of his underwear. The other was now sloppily fumbling through his hair while Craig resumed kissing him, although it was no longer relegated to Kyle's mouth. How curious that at any other time he would have been resolutely disgusted by the idea of anyone, human or animal, smearing lukewarm and slightly too viscous saliva all over his cheeks, but now — in the slush outside of Craig's house — he found it strangely appealing.

Things were becoming dire down below, and Craig began to whisper little things to Kyle. "Sweet nothings," they called them, but when Craig was using them they were less sweet than dirty and rather than innocuous, they were loaded barbs of solemnity. "Look at what I've reduced you to," he said softly and sharply. "It won't take long now, will it?" Craig did not receive any response to this more complex than formless whimpering.

Craig was nothing if not perceptive, and in this instance he was correct; it did not take long. Kyle was breathing heavily, but he didn't say anything — he shuddered and tightened his tenuous grasp on the other boy's shoulders. Withdrawing his slimy hand from Kyle's jeans, Craig glanced upward briefly, and pressed his lips into an O-shape. "It's snowing," he said, and in fact it was true. Being busy they hadn't noticed, but soft, small snowflakes were falling straight down, unencumbered by wind, failing to stick to the ground, which was soft and sloppy in mid-March.

"I really thought we were out of the season, now," Craig muttered. Kyle just blinked and moved his cheek to Craig's. Craig, not knowing what else to do, licked his hand clean. He kissed Kyle's jaw again, and then his cheek, and continued to work his way around the shorter boy's pale face.

"Go out with me Saturday night," Craig breathed into his friend's ear.

"Ah." Kyle continued to cling to Craig.

"Say yes."

"Mmf."

"No, that's not a yes, say yes." Craig deftly began to re-button the open fly on Kyle's pants.

"Yeah," Kyle sighed. "Yeah, okay. I, um, yeah."

Craig removed Kyle's hands from his torso and took a trembling hand. Craig began to lead him away somewhere, into the house, but Kyle stood perfectly still for a moment, his body not tensed at all, seemingly unsure of what to do. "Come on, dude," he said, gently tugging his friend along. "Let's go."

Inside the house, they collapsed on the couch. "Your family," Kyle said cautiously, looking around.

"They're sleeping," Craig assured him. "And even if they weren't."

"Even if they weren't what?"

"I don't know, they wouldn't care."

"Huh." Kyle looked around again. "They're really not going to wake up?"

"My sister might," Craig shrugged. "But no, they aren't."

"Okay, okay." Kyle felt comfortable with this, and he leaned into the other boy's frame. "I should really… return the, uh, the favor." Kyle touched the top button on Craig's pants, which would have been formal if not for the fact that Craig wore them to school, to paint posters, and while giving a hand job on the front lawn of his house while it snowed.

"Go right ahead." Craig spread his legs about as wide as they would go.

"You're not very subtle, are you?"

"Actually, I've been subtle for so fucking long that I can't stand it any longer. I mean," Craig sighed, "it's been like two years now that I've, you know … wanted you."

"Wanted me?"

"That makes me sound like a perv. No, I." Craig didn't know what to say. "You know, it's just, I've been trying. But I—" He became even quieter. "I couldn't compete for your attention, could I?"

"Oh? And who was I lavishing this attention on?"

"Oh, you know, that whiny little breeder."

"He's my best friend."

"Well, yeah, but dude, he … well, he's not … well, that guy is such a dick. He shouldn't string you along, but he does, I don't know what his game is."

"Don't say that about Stan!"

"Shhh, dude, my parents."

"I don't even like him! Why does everyone think that?"

"I, uh, I don't know. It's just, well, it's obvious, dude."

"How is it _obvious_?"

"Look," Craig said huffily. "I'll talk about Stan with you until the cows come home." The cows had indeed fallen into the habit of escaping their pen quite frequently. "But, you know." Craig pointed down to his crotch. "She likes to get what she wants."

"She?" Kyle gaped at Craig. "Your dick is a … she."

"No, it's just, ah, come on, dude. I know you got skills."

"How do you know that?" Kyle asked. He was so exhausted this didn't even insult him.

"People talk, dude. Just like people talk about you and Stan. It's nothing. It's just … gah, I am so horny, dude."

"I don't want people talking about me and Stan anymore." Kyle slipped down off the couch and began to rub Craig's thighs through his pants. "I don't like being talked about. So please." Kyle paused to undo the fly with his mouth, which made Craig's eyes go wide as his gaze bore down on Kyle. "I do not like Stan. And I will prove it here, okay?"

"Yeah, that is wonderful," Craig said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I concur."


	5. Chapter 5

Kyle woke up face-down, so it took him a few moments to realize that he was not in his bed, or even anywhere near his house. He looked around and tried to ascertain exactly where he'd ended up, and gradually his night returned to him in a sepia-toned wash of memory: Worked on posters, walked Craig home, sucked Craig's dick, now in Craig's bed. Yeah, that was about right. Kyle looked around at the unadorned walls and failed to see Craig anywhere, although his trademark hat was sitting on a desk. For a moment there was an active fear that maybe, just maybe, he and Craig had gone farther than he'd wanted to go with anyone, but he hadn't been drunk. Could he be blocking it out? No, his ass felt rather unremarkable, and he was still fully clothed from last night, except that his jacket was on the floor.

While Kyle was still contemplating what had happened — and, even scarier, what could possibly happen _now _— the door swung open, and his lover (that term felt simultaneously wrong and right, like a deep-fried Snickers bar) entered, wearing his school clothes and vigorously drying his hair with a towel.

"I didn't rape you," Craig said earnestly, shutting the door with his foot.

"I know."

Craig sat down on the bed next to Kyle. "Please say it's all right." He threw the towel across the room and it landed on top of a bookcase uniformly filled with books, each shelf meticulously arranged by volumes of a single size.

"Does this mean we're going out?" Kyle asked.

"Well, I don't know. Do you go out with everyone you hook up with?"

"No, no," Kyle said. "I guess that makes me a whore."

Craig actually laughed at this, and reached over to grab his hat off the desk so he could replace it on his head. "If I dated everyone I did I'd be an awfully busy boy. I think the question is, would you like to be my boyfriend? Because that would make me really happy." Craig smiled hopefully. "Please?"

Kyle thought about this for a moment. He'd never had a boyfriend before. He had been saving himself for someone, really, and he had always assumed that when this didn't pan out he would just serial date in college. But Craig seemed to care about him so much, it was relatively heartbreaking. He wondered what Stan would say to his creeping out with Craig and hooking up in public, or the approximation of public that was South Park at midnight on a Tuesday evening. Would he be disgusted? He probably wouldn't care. Craig was holding his hand again, caressing it lovingly, and giving Kyle the most immensely pathetic puppy-dog eyes in the world.

"Please?" he asked again.

"Oh." Kyle wiped some morning gunk out of his left eye with the hand that Craig wasn't currently making hand-love to. They were good friends. Craig was cute. He had that jet-black hair, which was a lot like Stan's. He'd given a really good hand job. How bad could it be? Maybe this was the thing he needed. "Sure, okay." Kyle smiled. "Let's do it."

Instead of replying with words, Craig kissed him passionately, his clean shirt brushing against Kyle's filthy one.

XXX

They ran back to the Broflovski house through the backyards, gleefully waving at families sitting down to breakfast if they could glimpse them through the back doors and windows. When they crept into Kyle's, they immediately knew they were caught.

"Busted!" Ike cried, pointing his cereal spoon at the intruders. "Mom is going to be soooo pissed at you."

"Shut the fuck up, Ike!"

"Hi," Craig said jovially, waving at Ike. "Kyle's totally my boyfriend now."

"Dude!"

"I'm trying it out." Craig rolled his eyes.

"Well, don't tell my brother!"

"I've waited so long to _say it_," Craig sighed, making kissy-lips.

"You guys were doing it," Ike theorized.

"Well, no," Kyle corrected.

"What are you going to give me?"

"I'm not giving you anything."

"You have to owe me something or I will tell Mom." Ike wiggled in his seat. "You have to promise to let me watch all the hockey games next season on the big screen."

"Dude, no!"

"Hockey?" Craig asked, not believing this.

"And you need to take me out for pizza."

"Make Mom and Dad take you for pizza!"

"I want to go with you," Ike pouted. "And anyway, you'd better say yes if you don't want me to tell Mom that I saw you and Craig sneaking in after you totally both did it."

"Ugh, fuck it, fine," Kyle grunted. "Get your fucking stuff, then. We gotta go." He turned to Craig. "We need to drop him off."

"That's cool," Craig agreed. "More time in the car with you."

XXX

Kyle noticed that most students walking through the school around noon were carrying these bright-white flyers around with them on the walk to the cafeteria where Stan accosted him in the lunch line. "Craig?" he cried, shaking his friend by his shoulders. "Craig? Motherfucking _Craig_!?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Oh, now you care about me, but yesterday when I was miserable in the library all I got was 'grow up' and 'get over it' and 'just ignore Cartman.' "

"Two distinct issues!" Stan protested.

"How the hell do you know?"

"Dude, it's sick, you smell like _Craig_!"

"What does Craig smell like?"

"Shouldn't you know? You're the one sticking your face in his crotch!"

Kyle blushed, actually embarrassed by this. "Who told you?" he asked in his highest voice that wasn't a falsetto.

"Oh, please, _everyone_!"

"I don't really have time for this, dude. First you don't give a shit about me, now I can't date Craig. Make up your mind, Stanley!"

"It's sick!"

"And here I thought you were all tolerant and shit."

"I don't care whose crotch you cozy up to!" Stan felt weird having said this, because it wasn't true. He lowered his voice. "Just please, not Craig's."

Kyle gritted his teeth, and poked Stan in the sternum harshly. "For your information, you miserable breeder asswipe, I'll be with whomever I please! And if you want to have a say in it, you can't just treat me like crap all the time!"

"Dude." Stan's eyebrows shot up, but he was frowning at this. "That hurts."

"Then stop hurting me!"

At this Stan just scoffed. "Look, dude, you know I love you. You're my _best friend_. But you can't walk around acting like a damn victim all the time, and then get pissed when I say anything to you, well, you're just making it _really_ hard. Okay?"

Kyle thought that this was entirely absurd, because Stan was the one making it hard for him, and he had been forever, but apparently he either had no idea or refused to acknowledge it. "You think I don't love you?" Kyle asked, his voice low. "I love you so much, and I just…" He heaved a sigh, and then raged again. "I just want to be with Craig, okay! And if you hadn't treated me like crap I wouldn't have done anything with Craig! You don't get pissed when I hook up with other people, what the hell do you care about Craig so damn much for?"

"Ladies, please," said a senior boy in front of them. "Some of us don't want to hear your homo drama!"

"He's not gay!" Kyle snapped. Stan just blushed.

"Then stop having the gayest fight ever, you little fairy!"

Kyle gave Stan a pleading look, and Stan was ready to totally deck their antagonist. The older boy looked down on Stan questioningly, as if asking him to bring it, but for a moment Stan paused, fist poised near his shoulder. He wasn't sure he should bother standing up for Kyle if Kyle was just going to be a douchebag all the damn time. In that long moment, however, the senior turned away, and Stan dropped his appendage, no longer required to do anything at all.

"Face facts, Stanley," Kyle sniffed, slamming his tray down on the lunch counter. "You don't care about me or my happiness."

"Do you know how much you're hurting me when you say that?" Stan asked. "I mean, I'm just so fucking sick of trying to get through to you!"

Kyle rolled his eyes at this.

"Oh look," the world's most annoying voice sneered from behind. "The lovers are fighting!"

"God dammit Cartman!" Kyle cried, stomping his foot down for effect. "We are not lovers!"

"And we never have been," Stan said calmly.

"And we never will be!"

"I don't know, fellas," Butters cooed. He was clinging to Cartman's arm, holding an empty tray for both of them in the hand that wasn't hanging onto Cartman. "You certainly fight like lovers."

"What the hell would you know about lovers, Butters?" Stan asked, rolling his eyes.

"Eric is my lover," he replied, pulling Cartman's arm harder with each syllable.

"Cut it out, Butters." Cartman said this in a bored tone.

"You guys couldn't possibly," Kyle scoffed.

"Please, Kyle." Cartman shook Butters off of his arm. "You have no idea what I'm capable of." He grinned at this, flashing a dangerous row of teeth.

"I refuse to believe that you two have had sex!"

"Oh? Is that like how you refuse to believe that hooking up with Craig isn't going to solve any of your problems?"

"How the hell does everyone know about that?"

"Craig was talking about it."

Butters nodded in agreement. "Yeah, he told me, too."

Kyle shot daggers at Stan. "Well, don't look at me," he drawled. "I don't talk to that guy. I heard it from Clyde."

"All right, fine!" Kyle stomped both feet this time, making a kind of rhythmic _clomp-clomp-clomp_ noise. "I really can't believe you would stoop to letting him fuck you, Butters, let alone kiss you. He's not even gay!"

"I assure you, I am 100 percent ass-rammer."

Butters just shuffled his feet, looked down, and clutched the lunch trays in front of his crotch as if he were hiding something.

"What? Oh, God, Butters, please tell me you haven't."

"I'm not saying anything," Butters sing-songed.

"You're not gay," Kyle seethed, reaching out to grab Cartman by his anemic little scarf. "Back the fuck away from Frank Granger, and leave poor Butters alone! I'll pay you!"

"It's always about money for the Hebrew people." Cartman directed this comment to Butters, who just shrugged, not really feeling comfortable with being the receptor for not-so-subtle racism in the lunch line.

"Fine! What do you want? Do you want _me_? Do you want to _hurt _me? Do you want to _fuck_ me?" Kyle felt tears welling in his eyes.

"I'm not sure I really want to be up in Craig's biznatch, so no. Plus you're not really my type."

"I'm your type." Butters nodded.

"Be quiet, Butters."

"Kyle, dude." Stan put his hand on one of Kyle's shoulders. "Please, just let it go."

"He's horrible!" Kyle threw himself into Stan's unwitting embrace.

"What did I tell you, Butters?" Cartman crossed his arms. "Don't let Kyle _phase_ you. He's just fucking unstable. Sadly, there's nothing we can do about this tragedy. Sometimes I just want to tell all the Jewish people, 'Ay! Jews! This is what happens when your religions promotes inbreeding!' And obviously Kyle here is a wonderful example of that."

Kyle let go of Stan and whipped around, but before he could let lose any attempts at damage, Stan's arms were around him.

"Aw, dude," Stan moaned. "I am not letting you get yourself clobbered again."

"Let go of me, Stanley!"

"Yes, let go of him." Cartman wiggled his two index fingers in a 'come hither' motion. "We all know I can take him."

"I don't think you want to be fighting around Butters."

"I'm—"

"Shut up, Butters!" Cartman cried. "This is between me and the Jew."

"Mr. Cartman!" Suddenly a voice rang out from a few feet away, and all four boys — plus several of their lunch room voyeurs — turned to see the school principal standing in the small doorway to the lunch counter. "Call off your dogs!"

"Why, sir, I was just talking to my friends here."

"Oh, can it, fatty, I know all about you."

"I'm seriously," he said plainly. "I would never hurt my friend Kyle." Then, under his breath: "Unless provoked."

"Enough! Marsh, Cartman, Broflovski! My office! _Now_."

XXX

The four of them trudged, single-file, to the main office, Stan leading, Kyle following him, and Cartman bringing up the rear. Along the way, Kyle noticed that he was trampling on white flyers, hand-scrawled and Xeroxed. He didn't bother to read them. He already knew about that stupid dance.

The entire walk was only a few minutes long, and largely silent, except for one remark Kyle heard from behind. "I got you in trouble again." Kyle's fists clenched and his left eye began to twitch, but it wasn't in vain, because he was able to restrain himself. For the moment.

Arriving at the principal's office, the older man took a seat behind his desk. "Sit, boys," he said wearily, indicating a few chairs in front of his desk. Stan tried to get in between Cartman and Kyle, but the large boy shoved his friend out of the way and plopped down in the middle. The principal gave them an odd look, but he shrugged it off.

"I'm afraid I have some horrible news," he said dully, removing his glasses. "I really shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but we received a call from the family."

"Whose family?" Kyle squeaked, assuming it was his, because his mother was the only person he'd ever met who ever bothered calling the school for any reason whatsoever.

"The McCormicks." He searched the boys' expressions, but Stan's and Kyle's were blank, and the one in the middle, well … he just looked annoyed. "It seems that there's been an accident." He waited for a remark, but they all sat in front of him entirely silent. "Your friend Kenny is dead. It seems he overdosed on sleeping pills. I'm so sorry, boys. His father said you were his closest friends, and he asked me to tell you. If there's anything I can do for you all—"

"Dude," Stan droned.

"Weak," Cartman shrugged.

"So, we're not in trouble?" Kyle asked.

"Trouble? Why?"

"We were fighting in the lunch line."

"What?"

"Yeah," Cartman agreed. "I thought you were gonna expel us or something, after two days ago."

"What happened two days ago?" The old man gripped the arms of his chair.

"Um, nothing," Cartman hastily replied.

"Exactly." Kyle nodded.

"None of you are concerned that your friend is dead?"

Stan spoke up. "Oh, yeah. It sucks. But we'll see him tomorrow."

"Oh, no." The principal shook his head. "Oh no, no, no. I'm so sorry, boys. You are never going to see your friend again. I know this takes some time to get used to, but I'm sure in time—"

"Dude," Kyle rasped. "It's Kenny. Have you ever met him?"

"Well, no."

"Yeah, I wouldn't worry about it too much," Stan said.

"Yeah, that little prick is always off and dying."

"Mr. Cartman," the principal drawled. "Your close _friend_ is _dead_."

"Yeah, and he was yesterday and will be tomorrow, that's all I'm saying."

"I can't believe this. Do you even understand the gravity of this situation?" Kyle raised his hand. "You don't need to ask permission to speak here, Mr. Broflovski. Go ahead."

"I, uh, I think we're all in _shock_," Kyle said slowly. "We really need some time to let this sink in."

"Yeah," Stan agreed. "Yeah, that's what we need."

The principal looked at them incredulously for a second, but then he sighed. "Oh, all right," he said. "I'm so sorry for your loss, boys."

XXX

Two people were sitting in the reception area when Stan, Kyle, and Cartman finished their consoling meeting, and in alphabetical order they were Butters and Craig.

Stan and Craig made eye contact, and Stan looked to Kyle, who just glowered at him. "I'm out of here," he said pathetically, retreating.

"Hi Eric!" Butters cheered, getting up. Craig sat silent. "What was your meeting about?"

"Ugh, Jesus, nothing. Kenny's dead, what's new."

"That's terrible!"

"Butters, don't you have a class or something?"

"Yup!" Butters hopped on one foot. "I got physics!"

"Well, then, uh, why don't you _go to it_?" Cartman asked through gritted teeth. "I don't want you to miss anything."

"Oh boy! Um, okay!" Butters skipped away, humming something too upbeat to himself.

"Carry your books to Latin, Kyle?" Cartman asked, extending his arms in offering.

"Just get away from me."

"Kyle, denying this sexual tension between us isn't necessary. You can't let hate get in the way of love."

"He said to leave him alone," Craig said sternly, rising from his seat, brandishing his middle finger at Cartman like it was the first time.

"Oh, wow, Craig. You can extend your swear finger. I had _no idea_! I'm sure Kyle's into that sort of thing, too. You guys make such a cute pair."

"Get out," Craig growled, dropping his brows and pointing to the empty secretary's desk. "Or I'll have you incapacitated before she comes back."

"Real mature, Craig," Cartman mumbled, pushing through him and Kyle on the way out the door.

"Baby," Craig began, turning to Kyle.

"I'm not talking to you, Craig." Kyle crossed his arms.

"Aw, honey, why not?" Kyle was really hoping these names were all in jest and not something Craig planned on using in earnest.

"Why? Why? You told basically the entire school about us!"

"Well, we're dating now, right? Why shouldn't anyone know?"

"I don't want them to know what I do with my mouth! I don't mind if people know what I'm _not_ doing with my mouth, which is playing the clarinet, because I gave that up in eighth grade." Kyle paused. "But seriously!"

"I only told the guys at lunch. And Clyde."

"Yeah, and he told Stan apparently!"

Recognition dawned on Craig's face. "Oh."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, um, I'm sorry." Craig took Kyle's hand and kissed it quickly. "I have something that will make it up to you." He took a white piece of paper out of his back pocket and began to unfold it.

"I've seen it, dude. I don't want to go to that stupid dance."

"That's not what this is," Craig said smugly, presenting the unfurled flyer before Kyle with both hands, who immediately recognized it as the original of the one he'd been seeing around the school. The words, scrawled in fat black print, read:

_**Fight Intollerance!**_

_**Protest against the end of homosexuality!**_

_**Rally!**_

_**Saturday 3!**_

_**City hall!**_

_**Punch and pie!**_

"Craig!" Kyle cried, grabbing the flyer after he finished reading it. "Now I have to get food?"

"No, I'll cover it. I can hardly expect you to feed 1,000 people."

"What?"

"That's how many flyers I dumped around the school."

"Oh. Uh." Kyle scratched his chin while he tried to figure out what to say. "That's 10 times the number of people who go here, dude."

Craig shrugged. "Eh, whatever. I mean, I'm not actually going to get food. People just need to see that if they need a reason to show up."

"Where did you figure that out?"

"You." Craig and Kyle both blushed.

"But I thought we were going out on Saturday."

"Oh?" Craig asked. "You still want to go out with me?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you were pissed."

"I'm not, I'm just — well, I'm late to Latin. Please just don't tell anyone else what we do, okay?"

"What are we going to do?" Craig asked, absent-mindedly placing the palm of his right hand over his left nipple through his shirt.

"I'll have to figure it out," Kyle admitted. "But I won't disappoint you."

"Promise?"

"Yes. I totally promise."

"Good." Craig smiled as Kyle rushed out of the room to Latin class.

XXX

The truth was, Kyle wasn't sure that he couldn't disappoint Craig in the end. Kyle was working with the twin deficiencies of sexual inexperience and a profound, lingering longing for another boy.

Which wasn't to say that Kyle didn't like Craig. Actually, he found him quite attractive. He had nice pink lips that were good for kissing, and they were soft and full and gave a little resistance when Kyle gently gnawed at them. Craig's hair was nearly as black as Stan's, but not quite, and unlike Stan, Craig owned not only a brush but also hair products. The afternoon following their initial hook-up, Kyle found himself sitting on Craig's bed following one extended make-out session, anxiously wondering when the next would follow. Craig had lost his hat in a moment of ardor, and was now teasing his hair with a brush and a blow-dryer in the mirror. It was full and shapely, and looked nearly perfect peeking out of the blue hat when Craig pulled it back onto his head.

"I can't believe you just did your hair to put on a hat," Kyle hummed, still thinking about his unattended erection, and how pleased he was with how angry he had seemingly made Stan earlier that day.

"Whatever," Craig scoffed, fiddling with a few stray pieces of hair. "It takes work for the rest of us to look as good as you."

"Oh, I don't look that good at all."

"Are you crazy?" Craig flopped back down on the bed.

"Sometimes I think I might be," Kyle confirmed.

"Well, I think you're so hot. I find craziness a little hot, I guess." Craig shifted and slid one hand under Kyle's shirt, which made Kyle squirm and seize into the touch. "Hey," Craig whispered. "You barely have any chest hair."

"Sorry," Kyle gasped. "I, ah, just don't."

"I always thought you would."

"Wait." Kyle grabbed Craig's hand and stilled it through his shirt. "Please tell me you haven't been thinking about whether or not I have chest hair."

"Well, yeah. I mean, a little."

"Dude." Kyle inched a little away from Craig. "That's … it's a little creepy."

"Oh." Craig's hand wriggled out of Kyle's grasp and slid downward, stopping at the waistband of Kyle's underwear. "Don't tell me you don't think about those things," Craig hissed seductively. "I know you do."

"Well, yeah." Kyle tried to give Craig's hand a little push south, but Craig just hooked his thumb around the elastic band.

"Don't tell me you don't."

"I do."

"What are you thinking about now?" Craig slipped his other hand underneath Kyle's jeans, and over his underwear.

"I'm—"

"Make it sexy," Craig commanded. "Lie if you have to."

Kyle grasped Craig's shoulders and gave him a squeeze, moving his face near to Craig's. He gave Craig something of a liberal sniff, and finding that the boy smelled like gasoline and nearly raw banana peel, Kyle pressed his lips to Craig's, lightly applying pressure but refusing to open his mouth while he thought.

What the hell was he thinking about? Homework, how Craig did his hair as he created a carefully sculpted rat's nest. His Latin homework, a translation of the first 10 lines of the fifth book of the _Aeneid_, and how that wasn't getting done as long as Craig's careful little fingers were playing close to his pubic hair, teasing a couple of strands and retreating back to his hip bones. He was also thinking of Stan, and what this would be like with Stan's fingers instead, bony and long as they were. It was something he contemplated repeatedly, all the time, since he was old enough to think those things. Generally when he was alone, Kyle indulged in these visions. With someone else he generally felt wrong and confused, like he was betraying Stan despite the fact that Stan was with girls all the time, and betrayal would indicate that Stan had these thoughts about him, too.

But he couldn't say this to Craig. Craig was so simple, and yet complex. Ha, yes, he was like a _simplex_, a mathematical theory he didn't quite grasp or an infectious virus. Perhaps if he said this to Craig, Craig would find it alluring. But no, that was just scattered sex talk, it didn't mean anything. All Kyle wanted was to feel Craig's hand on his cock, all he had to do was figure out what to say to bring that about again.

Direct was always best, he figured. "I'm thinking about your hand on me," he murmured, concluding this statement with his tongue on Craig's lips. They were still a little swollen from making out before, and for a moment Kyle wondered why they'd stopped, but then he remembered: So Craig could do his hair. And then put on a hat. Craig: the only kid in the world who would stop kissing to do his hair, and then cover up the hairdo.

Craig grinned and Kyle felt the corners of his mouth stretch under his tongue. "Awesome," Craig gasped, following Kyle's orders. "I hope to hell I can take your pants off this time."

"Yeah." Kyle wiggled his bottom up a little, and undid his pants, allowing Craig to slip to them down to the floor. "What about you?"

Craig continued smiling, and he pushed Kyle down on his bed while he removed his bottoms. Then he basically _sat down_ on top of the smaller boy, and laughed.

"What's so funny?" Kyle tried to thrust up, but Craig used his butt to keep Kyle's groin down.

"It's not funny, I'm happy. I have waited _so_ long."

"So?"

"Well, you read about people requiting their love, and you just don't think it'll happen to you." Craig sniffed again and didn't cry. He blinked. He bounced up and down a couple of times. "Do you like this?"

"I'd like it more," Kyle growled, grabbing Craig's shirt with both hands. "If I got off this century maybe."

Laughing still, Craig grabbed Kyle's legs and put them over his shoulders. He took the waistband of Kyle's underwear in one hand and practically ripped them off, or at least you'd have expected to hear the sound of tearing fabric, but the underwear only got as far as Kyle's knees before Craig leaned over and committed the act he committed second-best.

XXX

Having left his car at home before sloshing over to Craig's, Kyle now had to slosh back to his house, and hopefully get in without his parents knowing where he'd been. Granted, they were likely to have figured out by now that their son often went off to commit acts of sodomy, but he was expected to keep these to weekends and holidays. And seeing that it was now dark out, and probably past dinner, his ability to complete his homework was indeed going to be severely compromised. So yes, he hoped they didn't ask any questions.

XXX

Kyle spent the rest of the week pointedly avoiding Stan while he and Craig planned their protest. All they really did was paint signs; all of Kyle's blandly brandished crisp block letters and all of Craig's were profane and sloppy. They attempted to think of a rallying cry or protest song of some sort, but their two attempts were interrupted, the first because Craig crawled on top of Kyle and began dry humping him, and the second because they couldn't think of anything that rhymed with 'threat level orange.' Craig's suggestion, "I have a remarkable scrotum," made Kyle giggle appreciatively, but was ultimately rejected.

On Friday afternoon, Kyle took his brother out for pizza. He didn't know why he was doing this, because his mother had figured out about Craig anyway, given that they spent three nights straight together. Still, despite the fact that Sheila was still one step ahead of her son, Kyle felt the need to at least maintain the illusion that he hadn't snuck out of the house the night his whirlwind affair had begun. Perhaps it had to do with his guilt at having hooked up outdoors, where the eyes of the town could potentially leer at him. Like it mattered — it was pretty clear by now that if anyone had seen them, they didn't care. And if they did care, their little secret was rendered invalid the next day anyhow, when Craig told everyone he met in a 30-minute lunch period that he and Kyle had in fact swapped spit out of doors and were thus an item.

Despite the fact that Ike's threat was entirely unnecessary Kyle would have felt horrible, just horrible, to deny him a slice of pizza. Ike loved pizza, almost as much as he loved thumbing through Kyle's DVD collection and helping himself to whatever he wanted. He wasn't really allowed to do this, of course, but Kyle considered himself aptly fit to meter out justice to his little brother in great, heaping teaspoons. Hence the trip to the Pizza Gultch, and the swift and brutal ass-kickings that Kyle distributed on something like a weekly basis. Kyle did not make the connection that this was why Ike found his fading bruises so enthralling — to him, his brother was a bringer of doom rather that its victim. Perhaps Ike considered this his own little piece of vengeance; the topic didn't come up at pizza.

Instead, Kyle simply glowered at Ike, feeling resentful despite the fact that neither his mother nor his father had directed him to do this. Ike, being what Kyle thought of as retarded, ordered his pizza with ham and pineapple on it. Kyle liked his plain. "Mom and Dad would never let you eat that," he taunted, folding his slice up New York-style, a habit he'd picked up from his parents somewhere along the way.

"You eat whatever you want," Ike pointed out, picking the pieces of pineapple off of his food.

"What are you doing that for? I had to pay for that pineapple!"

"I don't like the pineapple on the pizza," Ike explained. "I only like it when it tastes a little like pineapple juice."

"You're a little freak," Kyle replied, baffled.

"You're a big freak!"

Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Where's _Craig_?" Ike asked, now removing the ham from his pizza and eating the little chunks one-by-one.

"He's obviously not here." Kyle blinked. "Now you're picking off the ham?"

"But I'm eating it," Ike reasoned.

"If you just wanted ham I could have just bought you a ham!"

"Mom wouldn't have liked that very much."

"Oh, like I give a crap what Mom likes." Although it wasn't true; Kyle gave a great deal of crap about what his mother liked.

Ike asked for a second piece of pizza. "Um, what?" Kyle asked. "Eat that fucking pineapple and maybe I'll consider it."

"But I don't like it," Ike whined.

"Fucking eat it!"

"Jeez. What crawled up your ass and died?"

"Nothing crawled up my ass!"

"Uh huh." Ike put a piece of fruit in his mouth and began to chew on it demonstratively, making slurp-y squishing noises, smacking his lips on purpose. "I think then maybe your problem is, nothing crawled up your ass."

"What!?" Kyle dropped his pizza.

"I think if you and Craig did it, it would really take the edge off."

"There is no edge!" Kyle shrieked, and just as soon as he said this, he covered his mouth. Ike just rolled his eyes and continued to shove pineapple past his lips, gobbling the little chunks out of his own palm and gnashing on them as disruptively as possibly.

Kyle leaned in and pressed his lips up to Ike's smallish ear. "Listen to me, you little brat. Eat your fucking pizza, and never fucking talk about me like that again or I will make sure you shoot your own testicles out of your nose."

Ike just nodded and finished his pineapple. Kyle went ahead and ordered him a second slice.

XXX

Back at home, Kyle lied his way out of Friday night dinner. Generally he didn't bother fibbing about where he was going or what he was doing, because he didn't care if his family knew that he didn't give a crap about Shabbat or them. Generally he only went if Stan wanted to tag along, and there was no Stan around this week. In the car ride after pizza, Ike quietly asked if maybe Craig wanted to come to dinner, but Kyle didn't dignify that with an answer. His plan had been to say nothing to his family and go over to Token's, because Token was having people over, although Kyle was now unsure if this was just going to be the guys, or the whole grade, or what.

But when his key was half-plunged into the lock, his father swung the door open preemptively, and seeing both of his sons together, his eyes became a little softer, and he asked where they'd been. "Kyle took me for pizza," Ike gushed, pushing past Gerald and running upstairs, probably to play internet poker.

Kyle looked up at his father, who was still an inch or two taller than him, and saw the most soul-crushingly warm expression on his face. "That was really nice of you," Gerald said softly, putting a hand on his oldest son's shoulder.

Feeling immensely horrible, he shook and said, "I can't eat dinner with you guys. I, um. My blood sugar is really high. I kind of feel like crap." So the first thing was a lie. The second, well, the second thing was true. Kyle wrapped his arms around himself and slowly stomped upstairs, figuring that he didn't want to go out anymore because 1) he'd seen enough of Craig to last him through next week, 2) he didn't particularly want to talk to Stan at all even if Stan would be there, which he might not be, 3) Kenny would be there regardless of who else was, assuming he weren't dead, which he was, still, and 4) Eric Cartman would probably be there. But he felt he at least owed his father a lie about why he was planning on spending the evening lying in bed reading William Shatner's _TekWar_. He made a point to turn his phone off.

XXX

Saturday did not bring improvements in the weather, which was still gray and thick with moisture, despite the lack of any snow since Tuesday night's small powdering. Kyle set his alarm for 1 p.m., at which time he figured he'd need an hour to get up, eat some cereal potentially, and drive his signs and himself over to City Hall.

To his great dismay, he was barely able to sleep past 11 a.m., when he heard things slamming into his window. In the tail-end of his dream he thought this might be Stan, except Stan looked exactly like Ike in this dream, squinty little eyes, dirty fingernails and all. It was frankly a disturbing idea, since he and Stan were playing doctor at one moment, in which Stan was carefully pressing on Kyle's nipples with a tongue depressor and saying, "That's not right at all." Then, in one shift with no distinction, Stan (the Stan who looked like Ike, rather) was slamming himself into Kyle's window.

Kyle hazily sat up and pressed his face to the glass, expecting to see either Stan or his brother or maybe both. Maybe they were the same now. The coldness of the window pane gave Kyle a bit of a shock, and he realized that Stan was wearing Craig's hat and clothing. Then he really woke up, and figured out that it was just Craig after all. He opened the window and stuck his head out.

"What the hell, dude?" he asked.

Craig paused, looked sheepish, and pocketed something. Kyle glanced down to the ground, where he realized that Craig had not been throwing rocks at all; he had been throwing gum balls. The measly layer of as-yet unmelted snow two stories below his window was in fact dyed in little circlets of acid pink and sewer blue, not to mention the nauseous yellow of the situation.

"Do you want breakfast?" Craig asked, hands cupped around his lips.

"Craig, what?"

"Your phone was off!" he shouted. "My mother is making breakfast!"

"Oh, dude, no," Kyle sighed. "Hold on, I'll let you in."

XXX

Craig kissed him at the door, which caused Kyle to blush madly and glance around the room to make sure his parents weren't around. Clearly they were sleeping, which is what Kyle intended to be doing himself at this time. "Please tell me you never get up this early on weekends and never will again," he said.

"I'm just, you know," Craig muddled by way of explanation. "The protest and all."

"Ah, yeah," Kyle agreed, shutting the door. "Can't miss that."

"Well, don't tell me you were going to just sleep through it."

"It's not for four hours!"

"Uh huh. You should eat breakfast with me."

Kyle brought Craig upstairs and he began to put on his clothes. "I'm not going to eat with your family," he said, putting on deodorant under his shirt.

"Well, why not?" Craig asked.

"I just don't want to. They're not really very nice at all."

"I know."

"So you can hardly blame me." Craig frowned and did what he did when he was frustrated, and sat down on the floor.

"I thought it would be nice if you met them."

"I know them!"

"My mom is making a whole nice breakfast for you."

"Oh, no." Kyle sat down next to Craig and put his arm around the other boy's shoulders. "Tell her I have too many dietary restrictions." Craig looked hurt by this. "Look, um, I don't mean to be, uh."

"A bitch?"

"Yeah, that."

"It's not a problem for me," Craig said. "I think it's cute."

"Aw, dude." Kyle smiled and pressed his lips to Craig's cheek. "Why don't you have some cereal with me?"

"First don't you need to put on pants?"

Kyle looked down at his black underwear and sighed, but it wasn't a particularly emotional sigh at all. "Yeah. First I'll put on pants."

Kyle put on jeans because he only owned jeans. Actually, no, he owned some dress pants. But unlike Craig, who seemingly owned only dress pants, Kyle did not like to wear them for no good reason, and he felt that slumming around South Park was less of an occasion than a cruel, cruel fate. So jeans it was, and he slipped them on in front of Craig, who sat on his bed in perpetuity, humming appreciatively at what Kyle was sure he assumed was a show for his own benefit.

They indeed had cereal, and Craig pronounced every option "stupid." In the end he settled on oatmeal, which he felt was the same as cereal. This resulted in a conversation about what, if any, the differences between oatmeal and cereal were. Predictably, Kyle had something akin to a right answer, which was that they were essentially the same, and that oatmeal was basically hot cereal. Kyle's boyfriend found this answer both intriguingly adorable and idiotic, maybe idiotically adorable.

Having finished eating with a couple of hours to spare, Kyle asked Craig what he wanted to do. "Ike's not around so we can get the TV to ourselves," he suggested. "I bet I could take your ass in Halo." Craig, being both crass and perverse, told Kyle exactly whose ass would be taken, and it wasn't in the context of gaming. Kyle shrugged and, again, allowed himself to be seduced to another plateau of indecency. But he still refused to allow Craig access to the one place Craig really wanted into. Craig feigned disappointment, but he was equally fine with frottage.

XXX

City hall was set back toward the end of a wide open space — but then, much of the town was. Urban planning, for all of its advances over the past century, was irrelevant in a place this barren. If it had been landscaped at all, or festooned with any kind of decorum, there might have been some temptation to call the area a "plaza," but this just wasn't the case. There was a flag pole, and a couple of benches. The building had a domed roof that created the illusion of grandeur, or fullness, but there was little inside the building. The rotunda was basically empty, and upstairs there was a smattering of civic offices.

Having gotten up so ridiculously early, Kyle and his wayward companion were alone when they arrived, with 10 or so minutes to spare before the start time of their so-called protest. For lack of anything better to do than stand or sit around, they opted for the latter.

"I hope a lot of people come," Kyle said.

"I'm not so sure I do," Craig countered. "I mean, it's not like we have a plan or anything."

"Oh, you don't need a plan for this shit."

"No?"

"People come, they're pissed, you kind of egg them on. The whole thing does itself."

"I guess it's a good thing this town is full of bored rabble-rousers," Craig sighed.

"Yes," Kyle agreed. "Although this might be the first time I ever thought that."

They sat talking about nothing, really, some television Craig liked. He apparently watched a lot of TV. "Don't you ever read?" Kyle asked.

"I read all kinds of things," Craig answered.

"Like what?"

"You know what I read, dude."

"Then how come all you ever talk about is TV?"

"People don't understand fancy-ass things like blogs," Craig explained. "I only watch TV because I'm bored. And people understand TV. It's the great common element of our time. And besides," he added. "I don't think there's anything particularly endearing about reading Star Wars novels."

"Whatever." Pause. "Where are we going tonight?"

"I don't know. I didn't really think about it."

"Dude. You asked me _out_."

"We're out right now."

"I want to go _somewhere_."

"Why don't you just come over and we can watch something on my computer."

"Uh, no."

"Pizza?"

"I had pizza last night."

"It's pizza. You can eat it every night."

"That's sick!" Kyle exclaimed.

"Well, don't look at me, it's not like you eat anything anyway, because you're an anorexic ho."

Kyle blinked. "A _what_?"

Craig snorted. "Okay. Well. Let's go see a movie—"

"Mmhmm."

"—and go to Token's."

"Didn't Token have people over last night?"

"No," said Craig. "Tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, so I'll take you to a movie, then to Token's. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"No, fucking super."

"Okay." Craig smirked and put an arm around Kyle's shoulder. "Sounds good to me."

The entire time they had been sitting there — all 15 minutes or so — plenty of cars had driven by, but no one had appeared to protest Frank Granger. For that matter, no one had arrived to protest anything. Kyle was getting worried, but Craig seemed perpetually chill, swinging his legs under the bench, kicking dirty little chunks of frosty mud and grass all over the pavement.

Kyle felt someone unpredictably lean his weight against the bench, and he whipped around to see Stan, who was frowning intently. "So this is your rally," he said smoothly, sitting down on the bench next to Kyle, who joined Craig in just staring at him.

"What are you _doing _here?" Kyle choked.

"Yeah," Craig added, tensing the arm he had around Kyle.

"Coming to your protest?"

"Oh, okay." Kyle blinked. "Why?"

"Because I'm your friend?"

"Is that a question?" Kyle pursed his mouth. Craig raised an eyebrow.

"No."

"Look, dude," Stan said. He removed his blue mittens and stuffed them both in the same pocket. "Maybe it's a foreign concept but I care about what's important to you."

"How nice," Craig slurred. "You should have brought along all of your little breeder friends."

"I really don't like being called that."

Craig rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

"Well." Kyle picked up a rolled up poster board from the ground under his segment of bench and handed it to Stan. "You can have this one."

Stan undid the rubber band and gawked at the poser. " 'Prostates are hot,' " he read. "I'm sure people will be really moved by this." He tapped on Craig's messy illustration of an arrow pointing behind the colon on a makeshift anatomy diagram.

"Do you want to be helpful, or not?"

"Craig, dude. Lay off."

"Whatever, Stan."

Kyle cringed. "You guys," he said quietly. He closed his eyes.

"This protest is pathetic," someone taunted cheerily, and all three boys turned to see Kenny in his black hoodie and greasy jeans, hands in pockets.

"Dude!" Stan cried, jumping up to hug his friend across the back of the bench. "You've been gone forever!"

"I know," Kenny said drolly, tentatively embracing Stan. "My brother found me not dead yet."

"What are you talking about?" Craig asked.

"You wouldn't understand," Stan said.

"Tell me." Craig tugged on Kyle's jacket collar.

"It always takes longer when they interfere before I actually go, you know," Kenny continued. "But any chance to have something rammed down my throat, you know, with the ventilators."

"What?" Craig asked again.

"It's nothing," Kenny sighed. He surreptitiously removed a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it quickly, inhaling deeply. "Fuck, that is awesome," he sighed.

"Is there something I'm missing here?" Kenny asked, gesturing back and forth between Kyle and Craig with his cigarette.

"Is there ever," Stan groaned.

Kyle looked at Craig, whose arm was still around his back. "Don't look at me," he said moodily. "You're the one with privacy issues."

"Well, Kenny," Kyle said carefully. "I think Craig and I are dating."

"You think?" Craig and Kenny asked at the same time.

"I'm pretty sure," Stan mumbled.

"That's so cute!" Kenny exclaimed, bringing his hands flat together with a loud smack. "Who's going to carry the children?"

"Children are idiots," Craig breathed.

"Oh, no, this is too cute," the blond boy continued. "Willing to throw me a few details?"

"Sure," said Craig.

"What? No!"

"All right, fine." Kenny put his cigarette between his lips and parked himself down on the bench next to Stan, filling it to capacity. "Anyway, here I was all ready to help you protest, but it seems like the only thing being protested here today is young love." The three other boys all gave Kenny a stare. "Well, if my services are not required," he drawled, standing up, "I think I should remove myself to the military surplus store down in Conifer."

"What the hell are you going there for?" Kyle asked.

"How the hell are you planning on _getting_ there?" Stan chimed.

"Eh, I'll hitch." Kenny flicked his cigarette to the damp ground. "I don't know, Chris asked me to meet him."

"Chris?" All three boys on the bench asked at the same time.

"You know, ze Mole," Kenny clarified. "_Christophe_, if you will. Although I wouldn't. Later, tools." Kenny trudged away, but he gave a final upside-down wave behind himself as he left.

There were a few minutes of silence following Kenny's departure.

"No one is coming, are they?" Kyle finally said drearily, leaning into Craig.

"Yeah, no."

"Well, what are we going to do now?" he asked.

"I don't know. Go home, take a shower. Find a movie."

"Sounds like a plan." Still lying on Craig's torso, Kyle turned to his right. "Stan?"

"I guess I'll go home."

"Do you need a ride?"

"No," Stan said, standing up and stretching. "I'll walk."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said quickly. "See you guys later tonight, maybe. Craig."

"Stan."

And Stan walked away.

XXX

Kyle dropped Craig off, turning down his attractive offer of a joint shower. The idea was a little engaging for him, he had to admit to himself, but Kyle did not doubt that there would be other chances to hook up in the bathroom. Craig promised he'd borrow his father's truck and pick Kyle up later. Kyle assented to this and returned home completely grossed out, his first attempt at political uprising having been a complete failure.

Predictably, his mother was sitting with a book on the living room couch, and she heard him come in. "What's wrong?" she asked pointedly, wasting no time reading his demeanor.

So Kyle explained to her about the protest, and she took his face in her hands and gazed across at him, their eyes nearly entirely level. "Don't worry about it," she said.

"I just wanted to do some good," he sighed, bending over to undo his shoelaces.

"Kyle," she said slowly. "If there is one thing I have learned as an adult, besides how to talk to Canadians, it's that you can force weak-minded people to follow you if you want — if you know how to agitate them right."

"That's what you've learned," he said, unimpressed.

"No, you didn't let me finish. I've learned that that's what you _can_ do, if you want. But it won't make a difference."

"So, what you're saying is, don't try."

"No! That is _not_ what I'm saying. What I'm saying, bubbe, is that you need to put more time into planning these things and less time into being angry and abrasive. It's not good for you, Kyle. You might get things done by being an angry loudmouth, but you'll distance people."

He brought a finger to his lips, contemplating this. "So, it's better to be a crafty, insidious bastard like Cartman than a raging asswipe."

"I'm proud of you," Sheila said softly, kissing him on the forehead. "You're such a smart boy. You can do good things, I know."

"Thanks," Kyle said sadly, removing himself to bathe.

XXX

Craig took him to see some stupid action film, and indeed he paid for both of them, and drinks. They shared a package of Jujubes, as per usual, but unlike before, they spent most of the time swapping spit, literally. Kyle was beginning to feel at ease with Craig's voracious nature — it almost seemed like he was lapping saliva out of Kyle's mouth, trying to trade slimy chunks of gelatinous candy back-and-forth in a battle to end up with the most pieces. It felt like Craig was trying to lick the plaque off of Kyle's teeth or something, the way he consumed the other boy's mouth with insatiable hunger and erratic twists of his tongue.

They'd never kissed before Tuesday night, and with this development there was one less boy in the grade Kyle hadn't kissed. He didn't know why he'd been holding out on Craig for this long. Apparently Craig's fixation hadn't been apparent enough to strike him. And it was probably the unspoken codes of friendship that kept them apart on drunken nights out in the forest — the same rules that kept him off of Stan, no matter how intoxicated he got or how hopelessly bereft he felt some days. Anyway, besides Stan, the only guy standing in the way of his complete set was Cartman. And that was not happening, at all, ever. Sometimes he wondered if he could drunkenly fall on top of Clyde — if he could drunkenly end up getting precariously close to _a kid in a wheelchair _— maybe it could happen.

But, no, he'd make sure it wouldn't. This thing with Craig was really solid, and Craig was a really good … well, it occurred to him that Craig hadn't let him down so far, almost literally. If the idea of someone basically drinking the spit out of his mouth in a movie theater had appeared before him on paper, he'd have dismissed it out of hand. But this was pretty decent.

XXX

Kenny's older brother was a complete loser who worked as a checkout boy at a liquor store. He never brushed his hair, and never bought a new pair of sneakers despite the fact that his soles had been peeling off of those things since the boys were in middle school. Unlike Stan's older sister, who was roughly the same age, Kevin did not graduate and move away to attend a mediocre state school in some other town. The matter of whether or not he graduated was actually somewhat up for debate, if anyone (Kenny included) had found it a topic worth debating.

But because of Kevin McCormick, many of South Park's under-aged residents were able to drink on weekend nights. So even though he was a complete loser, would probably be shot to death in a bar brawl before he turned 30, and had never been able to hold onto a girlfriend past her inevitable abortion, there was a special place for him in many of the hearts of the celebrants in the basement at the Blacks' that evening.

Kyle was not surprised to find Kenny crouched on top of the keg when he descended the stairs, Craig leading him by the hand. The first thing they heard was Kenny's voice ringing out clearly, "Tap this shit!" Then he made devil's horns with one hand and raised it into the air. "Only a 5 buy-in! Send your good wishes to this desolate wretch, my friends! It's what God would want! Merci beaucoup! In the port of Amsterdam!"

"I don't get him," Craig said in his nasal way, indicating Kenny with a slight of his shoulder. "What he's saying is dumb. And he's overcharging. Again."

Kyle shrugged this off. "He has his way." Which was about when Kenny lost his balance and fell backwards off of the keg, tumbling down to the ground.

"I meant to do that," he cried, but his words were muffled and no one made them out. No one checked to make sure Kenny was okay. Kyle wouldn't buy any beer from him. Kenny got the kegs from his brother for free, and they split the profit. Besides, it was probably something weak, something that tasted like soap or piss or something.

Craig took off to talk to Token, and Kyle sat down on the couch by himself. He looked around: No girls, anywhere. But he saw Clyde and Tweek talking across the room, the latter wiping his nose as furtively as he possibly could, drooling slightly, albeit unwittingly. It had been a long day, and he was hardly in the mood to rage, as they said, so Kyle laid his head back on the couch and began to let his mind empty, until—

"Hey Kyle!"

"Jesus!" A slight body in a purple leotard sat down and put an arm around Kyle. "Oh my _god_, Butters, I can see all of your _junk_." Kyle gagged almost as soon as he said this. "Why the fuck are you wearing that?"

"I don't know," Butters said, adjusting himself. The sound of glass hitting glass resonated, and Kyle noticed a nearly full bottle of Goldschlager.

"Ugh, please stop. Here." Kyle handed Butters a pillow. "Cover yourself." Butters did.

"Listen," Butters said. "I just wanna say, well, I feel awful bad that you were mad at me this week."

"What?"

"You know." He'd obviously had a few drinks before coming, that much was obvious. "We were fighting, and you and Eric don't get along, I just—"

"Sheesh, Butters, dude. It's okay, really."

"So I was thinking."

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking, I don't want to fight with you. I feel just awful, real terrible, so — maybe we could make up?"

"Uh." Kyle nodded. "Fine." He glanced around. "Where _is_, um, Eric?"

"He's studying with Wendy." Butters picked up the bottle of alcohol. "He'll be here later I guess."

"It's not upsetting that you're here wearing a faggy little tutu thing and he's, er, _studying_ with a chick?"

"Aw, heck no. I'm not possessive. So." Butters unscrewed the bottle and handed it to Kyle. "Friends?"

"Um, yeah." He took a swig, and almost gagged. "Butters, this shit is disgusting."

"Oh, I know you don't care."

Butters was right. He didn't. He cared so little that he took another sip. He smiled at Butters. Butters smiled right back, kissing him on the cheek. Then he took the bottle back from Kyle, and they passed it back and forth for some time, although neither of them could say how long that was, exactly.

XXX

After that he and Butters finished the bottle, and then he went to go talk to Kenny for a while. Kenny gave him a cup of beer for free, and then for some reason he was talking to Pip about crepes or some French shit like that. Still, Pip had a bottle of gin, and Kyle helped himself to some of that. After telling Pip that France was the armpit of the Earth and that he was a worthless piece of crap, Kyle didn't remember much until he found himself kind of hugging the banister on the staircase, feeling wonderfully sick to his stomach.

A pair of arms wrapped around him, and a black-haired boy lifted him away from the railing. "Aw, awww," he moaned. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times — don't mix hard booze with beer." Now that he felt kind of safe, Kyle just shut his eyes. "I know that look. Come on, dude. Let's get you to a toilet."

They plodded up the stairs, but were stopped at the landing by Craig, who was standing sturdily with arms crossed, scowling.

"He's, um, you know, he's like." Stan stammered. "He's gonna barf," he finished quietly.

"I can take it from here," Craig offered, extending his arms. "Come on."

"I was just gonna." Stan handed the dizzy red-haired boy over to Craig. "Drive him home or something."

"Who the hell are you? You've been drinking that disgusting piss Kenny passes off as beer for the past hour and a half!"

"I'm cool," Stan gasped. "I always take care of him, don't I?"

"Whatever. Not any more you don't."

"Oh." Stan looked down and behind at the revelers in the basement. "Don't try to tell me you're sober."

"Actually, I am."

"Good job."

Craig rolled his eyes and picked Kyle up, the smaller boy curling into his chest.

"Craig," Stan called after him. The other boy paused and kind of looked over both his shoulder and the top of Kyle's fairly substantial hairdo. "Aren't you going to give me the finger?"

Craig scoffed. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You know," Stan said, raising both of his middle fingers and kind of bouncing his hands up and down for Craig's benefit.

"I don't have time for this shit, Marsh," Craig said conclusively, setting off again to get Kyle to a bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6

Stan Marsh had never been involved with student government. He barely paid attention to elections, although he seemed to have a foggy memory of them taking place near the end of May last year. One morning he'd walked into school, determined to head straight to his locker. He was hungover that day, and it was perhaps the only reason he could recall the morning of elections at all. He didn't know why he'd gone to a strip club with the football team, but they all liked him and wanted him to come. So he did come — oh, hilarity, he probably didn't have to be that drunk to go do it in the alley with a _stripper_. But he had been, anyway, and then he contracted Chlamydia.

Whatever, whatever — these details were unnecessary to recount his hazy memory of voting in student government elections. But they weren't unrelated, which was why he remembered them even in the slightest.

He could barely see, and he walked — well, no, _staggered _— toward his locker, passing some girls with clipboards and a huge, hand-painted banner. He nearly slammed into the locker's metal door, and held his stomach in an attempt not to vomit all over the hallway, when Butters has bounced up to him, looking very dapper in a suit with a tie.

"Hey Stan!" he'd cheered, and it just made Stan want to heave all that more intensely.

Stan had muttered a "Hey, Butters," and covered his mouth in case he did spew on Butters, the idea of which would have been real damn funny any other day.

"You don't look very good," Butter said with concern, and at this point in his mind Stan recalled Butters himself holding a clipboard behind his back.

"I'm fine."

"Oh, well. You should take care of yourself," memory-of-Butters said with genuine concern. "You don't want to be getting sick during finals week, _that_ sure would suck."

"Sure."

"Hey, have you voted for student government yet?" Stan shook his head 'no.' "Oh, that's good! I mean, because, well, I'm running for head of the social committee, and, well, it sure would mean a lot to me if I could have your vote."

"Fine." Stan remembered Butters handing him the clipboard, and Stan filled out a pathetic, Xeroxed ballot, rendered in size-14 Comic Sans.

And, in fact, after this, Stan did vomit in the bathroom — for 19 minutes straight. It was glorious, and some boy who was then a senior (who was working at a gas station now, Stan believed) had exclaimed "sick, dude!" sometime in the middle of it. He had been very late to intermediate geometry.

XXX

"It's a turnabout," she said, pulling on a curly lock of her yellow hair absentmindedly.

"Why would Butters throw a turnabout dance?"

"To shake things up?"

"Bebe, he's gay!"

"I know that, Stan."

"Well, then there's nothing to turn, is there?"

"I don't know," Bebe said thoughtfully. "Have you ever _seen_ Butters?"

"More than I'd like to," Stan admitted.

"All right, fine. Be a dick, if you'd like, but I think you should know that most of the hot girls already have dates."

"I'm not planning on going."

Bebe gave him a look. "You owe it to me!" she exclaimed.

"Oh?" he crossed his arms. "And why is that?"

"Your dad _puked_ on me!"

"That's got nothing to do with me," Stan said defensively. "I have no control over what that retard does or says."

Bebe sighed, and groaned in frustration. She was trying to be quiet, as it _was_ study hall, but she wasn't going to let her inhibitions ruin this moment, if one could call it a moment. If nothing else, it was the first time she'd seen Stan without one of those guys he called 'friends' clinging to him in quite some time.

"Look," she said slowly, trying to make this argument as convincingly as possible. "It'll be fun. We'll be drunk, I'll put out, you'll _like _it."

"I'm sure I will," Stan agreed. "Just, why does it have to involve going to a fucking _dance_?"

"Girls like dances. I mean, have you ever asked a girl to a dance?"

"No."

"Have you ever been _asked_?"

"Um, yeah. Actually." Stan coughed, not involuntarily. "Kyle asked me to one once. In eighth grade."

"Well, fine," Bebe said huffily, standing up and gathering her books. "But don't bother waiting for him to ask you to this one."

Stan just rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't go with him, either."

"Fine, good. Because he's already going with Craig." She flipped some hair over her shoulder.

"Oh, Craig."

"Yep." He flinched. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fucking super. Tell you what, I'll go with you to your retarded little dance."

"Technically, it's _Butters'_ little retarded dance. But okay, good. I'm glad."

"Me too," Stan said. She bent and kissed him on the top of his head. He gave her an odd look. He was suddenly so _angry_, and despite the fact that he'd just agreed to go to some idiotic school dance with _Bebe_, her kissing him just made him angrier.

XXX

Predictably, Stan marched through the halls of the school that afternoon, not caring if he was late to football or had to do extra pushups or whatever. All he knew was that he was _pissed_. Pissed and insulted. He knew it wasn't rational. He knew he was being sort of a prick about it. He didn't care.

A few girls said 'hello' to him as he pounded the linoleum, but he didn't even acknowledge them. He stomped up behind his friend, who was (as was his way) kneeling in front of something, although this time 'something' was his backpack. Stan knew he needed a dramatic way to get Kyle's attention, so he slammed his fist into the locker next to his friend's. The sound reverberated and Kyle kind of fell backward off of his knees and onto his ass. He looked up to see Stan standing with arms akimbo, eyebrows knitted. "Jesus _shit_, Stanley. _What_?"

"You're going to that dance," he growled, not asking, just _saying_.

"Uh huh."

"Well, it would have been nice of you to tell me."

Kyle stood up and brushed off his pants. "I don't know, Stanley. Maybe I just _assumed_ that you would be able to _infer_ that I would be attending with my _boyfriend_."

"Yeah, your boyfriend of _three weeks_."

"Hell yes, three weeks. Have you ever kept a girlfriend that long?"

"Maybe."

"No," Kyle informed him. "You haven't."

Stan raised both of his eyebrows. "You've been keeping track of how long my relationships last?"

Kyle blushed, and shrugged, and rubbed his eyes. "Well, it's not hard!" he exclaimed. "Besides, you're the one who knows how long I've been with _Craig_."

Stan pointed to a piece of paper taped to the inside of Kyle's locker. "Fuck you, dude. You're the one who has 'three-week anniversary' written on a fucking calendar in your locker with a goddamn heart around it!"

"Craig drew that."

"Oh, Craig is just so fucking _cute_," Stan growled.

"Oh, I know, isn't he just?"

"No. No, dude, he is not."

"Well, that's fine for you, you put your tongue in _vagina_."

"Yeah," Stan sighed, finally relaxing a little and leaning back against the locker next to Kyle's. "Well, I just wanted to say that I'm, ah, I'm going with Bebe."

"Oh." Kyle lowered his eyes. "That's cool. Didn't think you'd want to go."

"I don't really." Stan flashed a wicked smile and began to speak quicker. "But she said she'd put out, so … well, how do you turn down that offer?"

"Haven't you … haven't you already had Bebe?"

"Yeah. But look, she puts on a solid show. Once you're in repeats you have to watch the ones you liked the first time, if you know what I mean."

"Um." Kyle was shuffling his feet, trying hard not to look at Stan.

"Well, this was enlightening," Stan said casually, patting Kyle on the shoulder. "See you around, dude."

Kyle remained in the middle of the hallway, jacket half-off one shoulder, mouth agape. He shut his eyes tightly. "God dammn it," he moaned, making damn sure he didn't see Stan walking away. Again.

XXX

By mid-April things were looking up. Kind of. Stan and Kyle were speaking — a little. They didn't have much time to talk now that Stan scrimmaged with the other kids from the town who played regional football. On top of that, Kyle's life had totally become Craig. It was nearly impossible to have a conversation with him without Craig being brought up. Stan convinced himself that it wasn't so much that he didn't like Craig. Craig was just utterly boring, and the things Kyle had to say about him were boring.

For example, Craig wanted to be a merchant mariner. Just kidding, he wanted to be a hairstylist. Just kidding! He wanted to be cinematographer. His parents bought him a camera for Christmas. Oh, what didn't Craig take videos of? Stan imagined that if he were interested — which he wasn't — he could find footage of Kyle online, probably hogtied with some manner of something stuck up his rear. How upsetting.

Although to be fair, Stan hadn't heard anything about their sexual exploits after the initial hook-up. It didn't make any sense — he and Bebe were spending a lot of time together these days (as much time as he could spare, in any case) and she was the biggest gossip in school. After her, the student with the second-loosest lips was probably Craig. So Stan felt he should have received some information by this point, so maybe nothing was happening. He couldn't imagine Kyle not telling him, anyway. The old Kyle certainly would have. _This_ Kyle was probably too busy enjoying Craig's business to bother wasting his time talking to Stan about what was going on down at the store.

XXX

The week before the dance found Butters sitting at a little card table in the middle of the hallway during lunch periods, selling tickets. They were 4 for a single and 7 for a couple, if you bought in advance. At the door, tickets would go up exponentially … to 5 for a single and 8 for a couple. Despite having been _asked_ by Bebe, Stan found himself sneaking up to the table one day, 7 in hand, looking to buy a ticket.

Butters was, as always, pretty happy to see Stan. Stan was, of course, less than happy to know that Butters' ass crack was peeking out of his pants back there. Still, he approached with a smile, pretty pleased with himself for no real reason.

"I'd like a couples' ticket, please, Butters," he said cheerfully, slamming seven singles down on the table.

"Why isn't Bebe buying your ticket?" Butters asked, tearing one off his giant roll.

"Oh, I just figured this was something I should pay for."

"She cheaped out on you, didn't she?"

"Of course."

"Well, that's not very nice."

"Whatever. It's 7, I can afford it."

"I know what you mean. My father pays me 2 an hour to sweep the basement, and the garage. If I don't do it, he says he'll ground me, but I've never not done it. Do you think he would?"

"I honestly don't know."

"I'm sure glad you're coming to the dance, Stan."

"Oh, yeah," Stan lied. "Me too. See you around, Butters." As he turned around to depart, he smacked right into someone.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," Stan mumbled, stepping back to see that he'd just walked into Wendy Testaburger.

"Oh, it's okay," she said airily. "What're you up to?"

"Nothing much. I was just buying a ticket to the dance from Butters."

Stan and Wendy both turned and look down at Butters, who was looking up at them with his hands folded on the table, grinning widely. "Hiya Wendy!" Butters cheered.

"Hi," she sneered. It was odd — she wasn't usually this nasty to someone who didn't warrant it. "Give me a ticket." She pulled a 5 bill out of her pocket and tossed it, crumpled up, into Butters' face. He attempted to catch it, but it toppled down his striped scarf and landed on the ground.

"Sure thing!" Butters bent over to fish his money off the floor.

"So." Wendy turned back to Stan. "You and Bebe again, huh?"

"I guess," Stan said ambivalently. "I would have gone with you if you'd only—"

"Only a single?" Butters asked over him.

"Yes," Wendy spat. "One, one ticket. One ticket costs 4, you owe me 1."

"Oh. Okay."

"Sorry," Wendy said to Stan, giving Butters the finger off to the side. "That's kind of you to say, Stan, but I already have a date. Or I _thought_ I did, but it turns out that sometimes _men_ actually _don't_ think with their dicks."

"Huh?"

"Here you go," Butters said, handing Wendy a ticket.

"Thank _you_." She snatched it out of Butters' hand, along with her change.

"Bye again, Butters," Stan repeated, walking away with Wendy.

"So, the after party," she said leadingly.

"I haven't heard about an after party."

"Well," she scoffed. "Of course you haven't. It's completely on the down-low. A select crowd. But you know you're welcome."

"Because I'm going with Bebe."

"Well, of course." Wendy stuck her ticket into her back pocket. "Not really a party so much as post-gaming." She paused. "You in?"

"Of course."

"Great! My parents are out of town that weekend. But seriously! Keep it down, okay? I don't want a bunch of underclassmen and pathetic fags showing up. Got it?"

"Got it," Stan confirmed. "No _pathetic_ fags."

"That's right," she nodded. "No pathetic ones."

XXX

Stan decided to flout Wendy's orders, in regard to issuing invitations to 'pathetic fags.' Wendy had never come off as homophobic, although she was resolutely heterosexual, or at least as heterosexual as Stan himself was. He liked to think of her as a giver, particularly because she gave stunning head, and because she never acted indignant about the whole thing. She had never thrown herself on him, which many girls in town were wont to do, and she encouraged the pursuit that Stan yearned for. This lovely dynamic resulted in the most mind-blowing sex, so Stan didn't want to piss her off. Still, his mind was on other things (or rather people) these days, so he told himself he would tread carefully, and invite no pathetic fags to her house — only Kyle.

For the past month or so Kyle had been sitting with Craig during study hall. Today, though, he was by himself, flipping through his Latin text, unquestionably checking some kind of syntax. Stan could tell that his little notebook was open to a page of half-completed sentence translations.

He approached with caution, but it was a wasted effort, because Kyle's head jolted up in shock the moment he slammed his book down on the opposite side of the table. "Oh, Jesus," he panted, sticking a pen in his textbook and shutting the cover.

"Hey."

"Don't do that, dude, I thought you were Craig."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Oh, I _am_."

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't being funny."

Kyle blinked and said, "Right," drawing out the I. But after that they sat there for a few seconds, just looking at one another. Kyle shuffled his feet. Stan coughed.

"So," he began cautiously, his lukewarm smile dissolving into seriousness. "Have you heard about Wendy's party?"

"I don't talk to girls," Kyle said in all seriousness.

"Well, I don't know, maybe you heard through your boyfriend."

"Mmm, no, he hasn't said anything about a _party_."

"Okay. Well. Saturday night, after the dance, Wendy's having people over."

"This is the first I'm hearing of it."

"Well, of course, it's totally on the down-low."

"The who?"

Stan just waggled his eyebrows.

"What's on the down-low?" a third voice asked. A black-clad torso seated itself in the chair next to Kyle and began remove books from a backpack.

Stan tried to wave this off. "Nothing, Kenny."

"Stanley says Wendy's having a party."

"No she's not!" Stan hissed.

"You just said she was, dude!"

"So she _isn't_ having a party?" Kenny asked, blinking. He pulled a felt-tipped pen from his back pocket and removed the cap with his teeth.

"You just said she is!"

"She's not!"

Kenny put his hands up, the pen still uncapped between his middle and index fingers. "This is one of the pressing issues of our time," he said slowly. "So think very, very carefully. _Is_ Wendy having a party?"

"No," Stan said very clearly. "She is not."

"You just told me she _is_!"

"All right, fine!" Stan pounded his fist on the table for some reason. He then shrugged. "Okay, she's having a party." He lowered his voice. "But you both understand, she told me to keep it on the down-low."

"It's pretty low down if I haven't heard about it," Kenny mused. "Why would you lie to me about it anyway?"

"Well." Stan lowered his voice again, really not wanting to risk someone overhearing. Or, worse, Wendy hearing him discussing it. Or, even worse than that, Bebe hearing him, and deciding maybe she wasn't horny for his loving, or whatever thing she'd concluded she had to gain from making him endure the torture of a school dance. "It's just that she told me—" He blinked. "Well, she said she didn't want me to invite any pathetic fags."

"Then what the hell were you doing telling _him_?" Kenny exclaimed, jabbing the bottom of his pen into Kyle's arm.

"Um, wow," was all Kyle would manage.

"Her words," Stan reassured them. "Not mine."

"Well, sailor." Kenny grabbed Stan's hand and began doodling something on it. He didn't look down at this, fairly certain that he deserved whatever he got from Kenny. "Well," he mumbled again while drawing. Stan continued to ignore him, staring right at Kyle.

"I just thought it would be nice if you were there," he said simply.

"All right," Kyle muttered. "We'll go."

"We? Me and you?" Stan asked.

"No, _we_, me and Craig."

"Craig?" Stan cried out, pulling his hand away from Kenny.

"Hey!" he cried. "I wasn't done! You messed me up!"

Stan glanced down at his hand, turning it over in disbelief. "You … you drew a penis on me."

"Yeah, because you're a motherfucking dickhead," Kenny said conclusively.

"I take offense with that."

"Oh, bitch, _please_. Like I should care what you give a shit about since you're being such a cock about this party, not inviting me and all."

"It's not my party! And it's not even a party, it's more like a post-game," Stan parroted, not knowing how to defend himself.

"Well, I'll forgive you if you invite me."

"It's not his party," Kyle offered, trying to be helpful.

"It's not a party at all!" Stan sighed in exasperation. "Fine, dude. Kenny. Please come to Wendy's party … deal. I know you're good for some drinks if nothing else."

"That right," Kenny said smugly, recapping his pen.

"I didn't even know you were going to the dance," Kyle said.

"Oh," Kenny said lamely. "Well, I'm not. But I can still go to the _party_."

"Well, maybe if we're all there it won't blow nearly as hard," Stan reasoned.

"Nope."

"Aw, come on, dude," Stan pleaded. "Why not?"

"Because, Chris doesn't want to go."

"What?' Stan asked, suddenly surprised. "What the hell do you care what that freak does?"

Kenny's face immediately went red, and he gritted his teeth. "Well," he spat. "Some friends you are."

"I don't understand," said Kyle.

"Me neither."

"All right, well, let me spell it out for you: Chris—"

"You mean, _Christophe_," Stan said, not really asking.

"He hates that name, but yes, _Chris_ is my _boyfriend_."

Kyle and Stan both stared at Kenny like he had a disgusting skin disease. It was, in all honestly, about the most stomach-turning thing Stan had heard all day. "You what?" he shrieked, the pretense of study hall quietude going right out the window. Kyle, not knowing what to say, just stared at Kenny, and when Kenny tried to make eye contact, he quickly averted his gaze, turning his face down to bore his sights into the table.

"We've been dating since the school year began," Kenny continued. He was audibly angry, his voice tinged with hurt. "I was sort of wondering if you guys already knew and you just weren't bringing it up because you're assholes or _what_, but I guess you're really both too absorbed in your bullshit sexual-tension drama to notice what's going on with _me_."

"But you were … you were with _Red_ two months ago!" Stan protested.

"Yeah, well, the thing with that is, Sherlock, we have an open relationship. I'm with a lot of people a lot of the time."

"You should have just _said_ something!"

"Well, don't feel too bad, Stan," Kenny said, standing up. He made guns with his fingers. "He doesn't like you guys, either." He shook his head. "Man. You guys are such selfish pricks."

As Kenny was walking away, Stan looked to Kyle, whose head was still hung low. "Hey," he said softly. "I wouldn't worry about him."

Kyle lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. "Him?" he asked. "Dude, it's not _him_ I'm worried about."

"Oh."

Kyle didn't bother removing his pen from his Latin book, which he shoved into his backpack before hightailing it out of the library as quickly as possible, leaving Stan sitting at the table on his own, wondering what the hell Kenny was thinking, and what the hell Kyle was talking about.

XXX

It had been Kyle who had asked, actually. Craig liked dancing, obviously. But he liked to do it on his own terms, in his own room, with his own friends. Dancing was supposed to be fun and sexy and there was nothing even remotely fun and sexy about school. Therefore, in Craig's mind, the term "school dance" was oxymoronic, or perhaps just moronic. He spent all week long sitting in classes wishing he weren't there, his mind virtually clamoring to get out, to escape, to run out into the streets and far, far away from anyplace where he'd be told what to do, or who to talk to. The idea of dancing _at_ school, where he was trapped for seven hours, five days a week, didn't sound like a good time regardless of who he went with.

And honestly, he wondered why Kyle wanted to go anyway. Kyle was a horrible, horrible dancer. When they danced together, late one night in Craig's room, funky music bleeping along carelessly, Kyle had been slightly drunk on mojitos but for that matter, so had Craig — who had to admit that that was something rather secretly pretty about seeing Kyle turn and wriggle his hips giddily, for Craig's own enjoyment. But, yeah, in front of the school, not so much. And what else was there to do — sit around on the bleachers, watching everyone else stumble around the gym? If it had been anyone else, Craig would have resigned himself to an evening of playing fashion critic, scoping out the ill-advised choices on the parts of ninth-grade girls. But Kyle was too precious to waste on something so boorish, albeit entertaining. Besides, being with Kyle was entertainment in itself. He was prone to random outbursts of unguarded emotion, verbally sparring with both sworn enemies and random passersby. It made Craig a little lascivious just thinking about it.

He was still one part confused and one part excited when he banged on the Broflovskis' door that evening, one hand clutching a bouquet of calla lilies, although perhaps 'bouquet' was stretching it — it was a bunch of about four majestic stems, each one crowned with a sleek white head. Craig didn't know why, but they felt phallic to him, or about as phallic as a flower could be, considering that blooms were generally accepted as a metaphor for the female anatomy. He'd tied a ribbon around them, but when he'd gone to the gift store to look for an acceptably masculine style, the best he'd been able to do was black. "I'm so sorry for your loss," the saleswoman had said.

"Who?" Craig had replied.

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "You know, when someone dies, you wear a piece of back ribbon."

"You do?"

"Well, some people do." She handed him back his change. "I think particularly in the Jewish faith."

"Oh really?" he'd asked, making jaunty eyebrows.

"Um, sure," she'd hastily agreed, a little weirded out by him. "Thanks for shopping."

"Thanks for your sympathies," Craig had responded. He also helped himself to a handful of starlight peppermints on the way out the door.

But here he was, chewing up the end of a mint, and slamming his fist against the front door of Kyle's house, not really sure just what the fuck he was doing going to this dance. When the door did swing open, he was fully expecting to see Kyle there, ready and waiting to go, hopefully wearing something hot. This prompted Craig to think about what sorts of hot little numbers Kyle might own, but he really didn't see his boyfriend as the kind of guy to make Daisy Dukes out of an old pair of jeans, or own a fishnet shirt. Kyle barely knew how to dress himself, although he figured it was something they could work on later.

And this was what Craig was pondering when Mr. Broflovski opened the door and gave his son's caller a warm, broad smile. "Kyle's upstairs getting ready," he said gently. Craig seemed to not hear this.

"It is I, Craig." He raised his unencumbered hand into the air and flashed a toothy grin.

Gerald Broflovski looked at the boy in front of him, whose eyes were rimmed in black makeup. "Yes, Craig," he said. "I've known you since you were 4."

"I am here for your son."

Gerald smiled again. "And what are your intensions toward my son?"

"Um." Craig blinked. "Uh huh." He began to dig around in his back pocket and he pulled out a condom. "Protected, I assure you," he said haughtily, waving it in Kyle's father's face.

"Um, yeah." There was a moment of silence before Gerald cocked an eyebrow and said, "You might want to be careful of whose face you wave that around in." Craig shrugged, and crossed his arms. "If I were a less reasonable man, I might not let you go out with my kid now. I mean, I'm not stupid, but it might be in your interest to refrain from flaunting your plans."

"You asked me my intentions."

Gerald just sighed. "Do you want to come in, Craig?"

Craig did indeed want to come in, and he pushed past the man blocking the door, proceeding to stomp up the stairs. Gerald shut the door and smiled to himself, turning to his wife, whom Craig hadn't noticed standing off to the side.

"He's a very brazen boy," Sheila said carefully. "I don't trust him with Kyle."

"Kyle is old enough to make his own decisions."

"Decisions? He's going to make mistakes!"

"And we're going to let him."

"But," Sheila sniffed. "My _baby_."

"Yeah. I know," Gerald sighed. "I know."

XXX

Kyle was, in fact, getting ready, although as far as Craig could perceive this process involved a lot of cursing, and apparently sitting in front of a mirror with a spray bottle of water and a straight iron. The scent of burning hair lingered in the bathroom. "Straightening your hair? How ironic!" Craig cried happily.

"What? Oh, fuck." Kyle slammed down the hair straightener. "Why are you so early?"

"I'm not early. You're late."

"Well, as you can see I'm not really done here."

"What are you doing to your head?" Craig asked, approaching Kyle from behind. He took a warm lock and yanked on it.

"Ow!" Kyle tried to swat Craig's hand away from his head. "Don't do that."

Craig refused to budge. "Not that it's not flattering, dear, but I don't require this sort of effort." He removed his hand, but not before giving an untouched, bouncy curl a quick tug. "I like your pretty hair just how it is."

"Well," Kyle huffed, turning himself to face Craig. "Maybe I'm not doing it for you."

"Aw. Well." He lifted the flowers. "Look what I bought you."

"What the hell." Kyle voice pulsed with amusement and a touch of confusion

"They're for you." Craig extended the bunch of flowers in offering.

"I know that." Kyle snatched the lilies away from Craig and lifted then to his nose, taking a whiff. "Smells nice."

"I didn't think they smelled like anything. I think you're smelling cooked hair. Where the fuck did you get this, anyway?" Craig asked, picking up the iron and sniffing it. It smelled like a kind of fried chalkiness. "What the fuck."

"If you must know, I swiped it from my mother."

"She straightens her hair?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You've obviously never looked at it up close."

"And I'm sure I never will."

Kyle laid the flowers down on the counter. "Well, I'm not really ready to go. I mean," he indicated his head, "I'm not sure I should go out with half of it wilted and half of it just as hideous as ever."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," Kyle said honestly. "I thought I should."

Craig sighed and put his hands on Kyle's shoulders. "Listen to me," he said slowly. "I will fix it for you."

"You will."

"Yes, I will. I've been doing my sister's hair forever. I will make it look spectacular. But you have to promise me something."

"What?"

Craig leaned into Kyle's ear. "Promise me you will never, ever touch it again."

Kyle swallowed. "Okay," he agreed. "If you insist."

"I insist." Craig picked up the iron and cranked up the heat setting.

XXX

To Kyle, the turnabout dance was quantifiable in measurements of who said what about his hair. Craig pronounced it "breathtaking," but Craig always felt his work was on the brighter side of spectacular — he also rated his rimming skills at 17 out of 10, and had once made himself a "best pick-up truck parallel parker" award certificate, which he actually bothered to have framed. It hung in his bathroom.

Heidi Turner, in passing, mumbled something about not knowing his hair could do 'that.' When Kyle asked what exactly 'that' was, Heidi just shrugged. A few people just kind of looked at him funny, like they didn't know who he was or what he was doing there with Craig. But the remark that made Kyle blush with abandon was when Stan came up to him near the door and said, "New look?"

"It's not permanent," Kyle had replied, fanning himself a little.

"Neat." And if it felt like Stan was about to lean in and kiss him, or just whisper something dumb about his hair, Kyle would never be able to verify it, because it was at this moment that Bebe ran in and grabbed Stan's arm, yanking him toward the dance floor. Kyle watched him stagger off with his date, the smell of rum wafting around where his wet breath lingered. Kyle held his bottle of water and sighed — he knew Stan would never kiss him.

Perhaps this dance was even lamer than projected because he was totally, horribly sober. Craig had made him promise not to drink — sworn up and down that he had a very good reason why Kyle needed to be mostly sober at the end of the night, "but not too sober," and Kyle had a pretty good idea of what Craig was getting at. He also knew himself pretty well, and he was quite painfully aware that if he began drinking, the likelihood of being able to halt was fairly low. And so here he was in the gym, lingering by the entrance with his bottle of water, watching Stan and Bebe flounce off to make asses of themselves on the dance floor.

It was not a particularly memorable event. A couple of sophomores vomited, and were thusly sent home. Stan and Bebe ground their pelvises into each other, clinging to one another as if to a life preserver. Bebe in particular flounced her butt in time to the music, joyously shaking with her arms in the air while Stan looked awkwardly detached from the scene. Obviously, he'd helped himself to some of his father's rations on the way out the door. Kyle could only hope that Bebe hadn't been involved, but he knew it was too much to expect. He was painfully aware of what was coming.

A distinct sense of gloom lingered throughout the dance. It didn't matter that Craig was his usual self, alternately gentlemanly and crass, running off to talk to random people the entire night only to return with another bottle of water and a story about 'accidentally' snapping a freshman girl's bra. "But that's what you get for not going strapless," he reasoned. Kyle just shrugged. He didn't realize or care that bras may or may not have straps; the possibility of touching one of these bra straps was likewise uninteresting to him. As was this entire dance. The cheesy flashing lights, the boring soundtrack … all any of it did was provide a backdrop to his misery as he sat on the bleachers watching Stan. Then Craig would run back up to him with some more water, and God, how Kyle hated Craig's ability to make this situation any fun at all. He didn't know why he wanted to go to this. At first he'd figured that it was what real couples did, and weren't he and Craig a real couple? But the longer he sat with his head in his hands, staring at his best friend's date with the hot ire of a thousand energy-wasting 150-watt lightbulbs, the more he began to feel that he and Craig were just as able to be a real couple without ever going to another school function again. Fine, done. He'd made a mistake, but now he'd made a decision.

It seemingly dragged on forever, but of course, that was mere hyperbole — it was over by midnight. And so before he knew it, Kyle found himself trudging through town along the side of the road, Craig's arm around his shoulders, the material of each other's coats making small noises as they rubbed together in the frigid darkness. Craig was kind of talking at great length about someone's outfit, and Kyle allowed himself to drift back to the dance, where sad little Butters sat by himself at the ticket table twiddling his thumbs and sighing. "Cartman not a dance fan?" Kyle had asked him, looking for people to speak with to stave off his boredom.

"Huh? Oh. I guess not." Butters tapped the cash box. It made a satisfyingly metallic sound. "I'm meeting up with him after."

"He's making himself awfully scarce these days."

"Aw, don't I know it." He smiled sadly. "He's always talking to that Frank Granger fella, or hanging out with Wendy. People just want his attention so bad, and if it's not them, it's the football team."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Wendy, huh? Butters, don't you ever—"

Butters cut him off. "Don't you say it. I know you think I'm just a naïve little thing, and, well, I'm not. And I don't want to fight with you or anything."

"But don't you—"

"No." His fingers tensed on the cashbox,

"All right, fine. Good dance, Butters."

"I know you don't mean that."

Kyle had been turned around, planning on finding someone else to bug while Craig played social butterfly with Thomas and a bunch of sophomore girls, but this comment of Butters' just caught him, as if it were a hook on his black shirt, and he turned, frowning.

"Well, fuck it, Butters. Who the fuck says what they mean all the damn time?"

"Gee, I don't know. Some people."

"Some retarded people."

Now, in the murky cold, with the purple sky lit by tiny white stars, Kyle let Craig drag him along the dirt shoulder of the street. He was babbling about nothing, as he was wont to do. But Kyle wasn't listening. He thought about Butters, and his stupid — well, gay — little dance. What had any of it accomplished for any of them? What had it accomplished for Butters? Nothing, that was what. Nothing that boy did would ever get him what he wanted. All he would ever be was strung along, made to grope for the love of a boy who was too preoccupied with his own agenda to even notice beyond amusement. And that was fine, Kyle guessed. In his heart he pitied the blond boy, but he knew, rationally, that anyone that simplistic and naïve was just begging for what he deserved.

XXX

"Kyle, Craig," Wendy said curiously. She leaned against the door, hand on her jaunty hip, thigh exposed through a slit in her skirt. "I, uh, wasn't expecting you guys."

"No? How weird. You look totally hot, Wends." Craig flashed his toothy smile. "Dig the top."

"Yeah?" she asked, fingering the lacy material. "I got last week, it was on sale."

"No way."

"Yes way. I was like, they won't have this in my size, but they _did_. I don't know, things don't usually fit over my…" She pointed to her chest and mouthed the word 'cleavage.'

Tapping his foot impatiently, Kyle sighed. It was cold out, and he had no interest in discussing women's clothing, or really any clothing, pretty much ever. So he interjected: "I'm really sorry, Wendy. I know it's supposed to be small, but Stan asked me to come, and I couldn't not bring Craig, and—"

"It's fine," she said, cutting him off with a belabored sigh. "Basically half the school is here anyway." And she stepped backward with the door to reveal a full house of revelers, many of whom Kyle did not recall seeing at the dance, or even in school before at all. But he saw Clyde and a younger girl talking near the staircase, and spied Thomas lurking in the background, drinking and flinching, probably cursing. "So you guys want to come in, or just hang out here?"

"Oh, no." Craig stepped over the threshold and pulled Kyle along with him. "I think we'll join you in there." He removed his coat and helped Kyle remove his. Wendy, who was pursing her lips while observing this scene, slumped when Craig handed her their garments. "Put those somewhere," he said.

"But I—"

"Thanks, Wendy!" Craig was already stalking off, Kyle's hand in his, dragging the redhead toward the kitchen. "You're the best!"

As he was led through the Testaburger living room, Kyle looked for any of his closer friends, but seeing none of them he just let himself be dragged along until Craig stopped near the kitchen.

"I have to go talk to Token," he said.

"Oh, godammit," Kyle moaned. "About what?"

"I can't tell you."

"What?"

"It's a surprise."

"What!"

"Calm down. I asked him to get me something."

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Now Token is selling drugs?"

Craig rolled his eyes as a skinny senior girl with dingy bleached dreadlocks slithered between the two of them into the kitchen without giving even a word of acknowledgment, let alone apology.

"Fucking hell," Kyle sighed.

"Just trust me." Craig leaned in and gave Kyle a quick peck on the nose. "Why don't you go mingle?"

"I've been mingling all night! I don't _like_ mingling."

"Go find someone to talk to. Why don't you talk to Thomas? He's really nice."

"He's _impossible _to have a conversation with!"

"I know," Craig agreed. "Don't you find that a little adorable?"

"_Oooh_." Kyle crossed his arms. "So that means _you_ find him adorable."

Craig smirked, and cupped Kyle's cheeks in his hand. "Is my little boy jealous?"

"Don't be a dick, Craig."

Craning his neck to get a better look into the kitchen, Craig spotted Token and gave a quick nod in his direction. "There's Token," he said. "I'm going to talk to him. Just try to relax or something, okay?" Craig gave Kyle another brief kiss, this time on the temple, and he walked away with his hands in his pockets as Kyle heard him call out Token's name.

"Relax," Kyle said to himself. "Who does he think he is telling me—"

He turned away from the kitchen, only to smack into what he might easily have mistaken for a wall.

"Oh, hi, Kyle."

"We're not doing this, shithead." Kyle tried to side-step Cartman, but the larger boy just side-stepped along with him. "Get out of my way."

"I like your hair," Cartman continued, pretending not to hear Kyle's order. "You do that for Craig? Or for Stan?"

"I'm not in the mood for this, Cartman."

"Oh, right. Well, I'll tell Frank you said hi."

"Yeah, please also tell him I said he can rot in hell."

"That's not very nice," he replied, but Kyle maneuvered his way around the large boy, making quite sure not to brush up against him at all, or, failing that, as slightly as possible, on his way. He heard the fading refrain of Cartman's amused chuckle, but he didn't stop to return any insults. He fled.

He wasn't sure where to go. He nearly walked straight into Clyde and his younger lady friend basically chewing one another's tongues off, and for a moment Kyle was worried he might have to speak with Clyde or worse yet apologize, but neither of them noticed him before he made a mad dash into the dining room.

Kyle thought about Clyde, who was whiny and passive, completely unsure of himself and not afraid to make these things known to everyone he came across. And yet somehow, he managed to find someone at this party, let alone countless others. Remembering the time _he'd_ kissed Clyde, Kyle shuddered. He liked to think it wasn't his fault — he preferred to blame so many of those little indiscretions on the Captain, or whatever it was he was drinking that night. Still, it didn't go very far. Clyde had been lying on the bed of the current senior whose house they were at, his lips scented like the cheap McCormick-supplied beer and Doritos he'd been consuming. As soon as he felt Kyle's mouth, he'd literally thrown the other boy off of him and gotten up off the bed, clutching his middle. "Get off me!" he'd shrieked. "I'm not gay!" And then he'd run into the adjacent bathroom. This was a year ago.

And they really hadn't spoken since.

Kyle wandered around the house. He tried to get upstairs, but some seniors he didn't know were using them for their own purposes, and stepping over people was just awkward. He silently cursed Craig, whom he was beginning to resent for throwing him to the wolves like this. Some partygoers attempted to make eye contact, or began to say something. Kyle wanted to speak to no one, save maybe two people. Instead of being here, he could be at Craig's, doing whatever it was Craig wanted to go do, not that he didn't have a fairly direct knowledge of what this thing was. Usually he enjoyed parties, and he wondered why this one was so god-forsakenly horrible. Then he realized that this was probably the first party he'd been to since age 12 at which he'd actually been sober for more than a brief period following his arrival.

Not really wanting to keep wandering around, and fearing someone with more than a cursory interest in speaking to him popping out from behind a piece of furniture, he fell onto the couch with a couple of typical stoners who were giggling about string cheese. Man, stoners were boring. He curled up and averted his gaze from them and the rest of the room, which left him staring at his own knees.

XXX

Stan hated beer pong for a good reason: He was awesome at it. He never missed, and as a result, whoever was across the table from him would begin to falter more and more frequently, until Stan and whoever he was playing with was left with a nearly full set of cups for the other team to drink up. He was too good a pitcher for this game to ever get him drunk, and his buzz from the dance was quickly fading.

And yet here he was, in Wendy's basement, facing off against the unlikely duo of Tweek and Butters. It was pathetic.

"Oh Jesus!" Tweek pulled on his hair and grimaced. "I missed again!"

"Aw, it's okay," Butters reassured him. "You did your best."

"Uh huh." Stan rolled his eyes. He turned to his partner, Mark, and sighed. "Your turn," he mumbled.

"All right." Mark carefully picked up a ball from the table, and shut one eye, focusing in on one of Butters and Tweek's cups.

"Ah, shit! He's going to make it! Oh my god, ah!"

"It'll be all right," Butters soothed, calmly patting Tweek on the back. "Maybe he won't—" A ping-pong ball plopped into one of their remaining cups. "Oh, I guess he did."

"Ah!" Tweek accepted the red plastic cup Butters was offering him, and as his hands trembled on the way to his mouth, little splashes of beer were lost. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, mourning the loss of alcohol he _could_ have been drinking, in _theory_, if not for this fucking game.

"Woo!" Bebe shrieked. She was sitting a chair, drinking a wine cooler. "Go Stan!"

"It was my shot."

"Whatever, Mark," Stan said. "Let's just get this over with."

"Well, don't you think it's rather unfair of you to be taking credit for my shot?"

Stan gritted his teeth. "I'm not. It's Bebe—"

Stan and Mark saw a little white orb whiz passed their heads. "Aw, hamburgers," Butters moaned in the distance. "Missed again."

"This game is so much pressure!"

Mark leaned in. "I think we need a strategy," he whispered.

"What? No, that's retarded." He looked away to eye Butters and Tweek — the former was quite obviously picking his underwear out of his ass; the latter was hugging himself tightly, whipping his head from side to side.

Stan turned to speak to Bebe. "This is retarded," he said.

"But you're doing so well."

"I forfeit," Stan announced.

"But we're going to win!" Mark protested, arms akimbo.

"The point of the game is not to _win_."

"What's the point of doing anything and not making a valiant effort to be the best?"

"Shit, Mark, dude, I don't know." Stan paused. "Getting loaded?" Both Stan and Mark turned to see Team Tweekers clumsily handling the alcohol.

"These cups are all sticky," Butters sighed, wiping a hand on his plastic pants. "Blech." Then he kept drinking.

"Ohhhhh no," Tweek moaned in response. "How the fuck am I supposed to drink all of this? What if I drink so much I have to go to the bathroom and then I try to get into the bathroom and someone's in the bathroom and then I can't hold it so I try to go in a plant and then someone sees me and I get shy so I try to go back to the bathroom but someone is _still_ in there and oh my god, it's getting real dire so I go upstairs and then I can't hold it anymore _I just can't_ so I pee on myself, and everyone sees me and they _laugh_ at me, and of course I've ruined Wendy's carpet, dear god, she'll get pissed at me and I'll be sued for underage drinking and _vandalism_ and then—holy shit! Her parents take me down to the station and they give me a drug test!" Somewhere in the middle of this crazed rant Tweek had grabbed Butter's by the collar of his shirt and was now shaking him. Butters, for his part, was calmly drinking beer. "Butters, what if they give me a drug test! It's just so freaking, like — seriously, I can't go to jail! Do you know what they do to guys like me in there? They'll rape me! Oh shit!"

"There there," Butters said calmly after swallowing a mouthful. He patted Tweek on the head but scowled when he touched the little skitzo. "Your hair is all clumpy," he remarked.

"Ahhhhh! Oh lord!"

"Okay," Stan said again, shaking his head. "I've had about enough of this." He grabbed Bebe by the wrist and yanked her out of the chair.

XXX

"Here," Craig said warmly, sticking a red plastic cup in Kyle's line of vision. "Drink this."

"Uh." Kyle sniffed it. "What is this?" He peered down into the cup, where a frothy liquid in an unusual neon-pink color was sloshing around. Kyle was immediately turned off by the color — but to be fair, he figured that some of it might have had something to do with the vessel the drink was contained in, and the questionable mood lighting of the Testaburger living room.

"Buck's fizz," Craig said simply. "I bought the Moet off Token. It's classy. You'll like it."

Kyle swirled the glass, and put it to his lips. He glanced at Craig, who was giving him an annoyed look. Not wanting to seem like he was too hesitant, Kyle took a sip, and wiped his mouth.

"It's just a fucking mimosa," he said, wondering if Wendy's family didn't own any champagne flutes.

"Correction: It has grenadine in it."

"And that makes it something else?" Craig nodded. "I thought you didn't want me drinking."

"They say alcohol is a social lubricant."

"I know."

"Well, that's not the only thing it lubricates." While Craig was speaking, Kyle continued to drink his champagne and juice. But then he nearly spit a mouthful of it back into his cup.

"No way this shit is going to lube up my ass, Craig."

"Well, not literally, no. Just trust me. Drink up."

"Then why—"

"Well, it wouldn't do me any good if you were too drunk to get it up, would it? Or worse yet, totally blacked out. Or violently ill."

"Yeah," Kyle agreed. "No. I mean, what kind of guy would barf on someone he wanted to have sex with?"

It was at this moment that a mass of entangled limbs landed on the couch right next to Craig, who merely rolled his eyes and inched away from a mop of curly blonde hair and a red shirt that was cut low in the back.

"Stan?" Kyle asked, reaching over both Craig and Bebe to poke the black-haired boy kissing her aggressively.

"Huh?" When Stan plied his lips away from Bebe's, a loud suction sound made Craig grimace — and Kyle didn't look so pleased about it either. "Oh, hey." Stan wiped his lips with the back of his wrist and took a breath.

"Shouldn't you guys be doing that in private?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah," Craig agreed lamely, as he had actually begun many a night of passion on someone's couch, or in the middle of a party.

"Oh, Craig," Bebe sighed, adjusting herself and scowling. "Get over yourself. I was basically scarred for life when I saw you going at it on Red's couch with Mark in ninth grade."

"Looks like you recovered to me," Craig replied.

"Ugh, that is so like you, not acknowledging my emotional pain."

"Says the girl using Stan Marsh as her own personal Hitachi."

"Ah, hey," Stan said coolly. "I'm here on my own volition."

"Me too," Kyle added quickly, feeling his heart beat a bit faster.

"We were here first," Craig said.

"You don't own the couch, Craig."

"I do too, Bebe."

"Oh, don't you give _me_ the finger!"

"I'm not the one basically _getting_ fingered."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do the fingering. Doesn't he?" Bebe directed this at Kyle.

"You don't have to answer that, baby. Let me take care of this."

"Don't you talk down to him!" Stan erupted, standing up. A few people in the room looked over at him, but most were too involved in drinking or displaying their own affection publicly to notice.

"Stan!" Bebe snapped. "You are _my_ date, and I expect you to defend _my_ honor!"

"Ugh, Bebe," Stan groaned. Then he turned to Craig. "What the fuck, dude?"

"I didn't do anything."

"You started a fight with my date." He paused. His pursed lips trembled as he tried to avoid adding the next part, but he couldn't stop himself. "And you can't order Kyle around like a piece of meat!"

Now Craig stood up, and a few more people turned their attention to the scene. "You can say whatever you want, guy, but the fact is he _is_ my piece of meat. Not to mention you're mixing your metaphors!"

"I'll metaphor you!" Stan threatened.

"Scary!" Craig cried, getting up. "Is that some kind of breeder football thing?"

"Why are people always calling me that?"

"I don't know." Craig rolled his eyes again. "Let's think." He put his hand to his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. "Can you help me, Bebe? I'm trying to figure this out."

"Craig," Kyle said softly. He pulled on the sleeve of Craig's shirt.

"I said I'd take care of it," Craig responded.

"Why do you let him talk to you like that?" Stan asked. Kyle let go of Craig's shirt and looked up at Stan, who was frowning in consternation.

"I'll talk to him however I want because he knows I treat him like a fucking human being, which is better than I can say for _you_."

"He's my best friend! I'd never do anything—"

"Exactly."

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

"I am so sick of this!" Bebe shouted, and the entire room, give or take, looked over at the couch.

"Bebe!" someone cried, and soon Wendy was hopping over some boy who was lying on the floor, and a lamp that had been knocked over. "What's wrong?"

"Fucking Craig is what's wrong!" Bebe pointed to Craig. "He's fucking fighting with Stan over this idiot." She pointed to Kyle, who furiously blushed and put a hand to his chest, not knowing how to defend himself. "And all Stan and I were trying to do was _make out_, and Craig is being a fucking cock-block, like if he's not getting any no one else can."

"I'm getting plenty," Craig said calmly. Stan's eyebrows shot up with immediacy, and he looked down to Kyle, who gazed back up at him, mouth open, hoping beyond hope he could think of something to say. He knew Stan so well, knew that the other boy's eyes were trying to read his, looking to know the truth, if any, in Craig's statement. It was as if Stan could read classified documents in his gaze, deciphering the jargon of his emotions with decoder glasses.

He no longer wanted to be here, and he didn't know what to do. Why did Bebe have to be such a melodramatic whore?

"Oh, please," she was saying, prodding Craig with her aggressively female tone.

"All right, okay," Wendy said tentatively. She put a hand on Bebe's shoulder. "You and Stan can use my room."

"That's sweet of you," Bebe said. "But it doesn't change the fact that Craig is a little douche and he ruined the mood."

"It's not really ruined for me," Stan blustered, trying to retake control here from the women.

"It's fine," Kyle added, because he was finding it impossible to let Stan say anything without following with his own comment, regardless of how inane or innocuous.

"We're all having a really nice time here," Wendy tried to rationalize. "We don't need to ruin it with this fighting."

"Then make Bebe get the fuck off my couch!" Craig snapped his fingers in Bebe's face to go along with this suggestion.

"You get off the couch, Craig! It's my couch since it's in _my_ best friend's house!"

Wendy coughed. "Technically it's my couch."

"I don't know why you're friends with this bitch, Wends," Craig sneered.

"Craig," Kyle pleaded, the only participant in this argument still seated.

"You keep the least savory company," Craig continued.

"And just what is that supposed to mean? Don't insult me in my house, Craig!"

"Yeah, don't insult her in her house!" Bebe smirked.

"Can we please just leave here?" Stan asked.

"Craig," Kyle continued to wheedle.

This time, instead of ignoring the red head, Craig whipped around and looked down at Kyle. "What?" he snapped, and then almost instantly as he realized what he was doing. He immediately shook his head and said, "Sorry, I—"

And whatever he was sorry for, he didn't get to finish, because with no more than a furtive glance at Stan and Bebe, Kyle leapt up and crushed his lips into Craig's, clutching the ties on his hat like they were the handles of a pool ladder.

Craig's eyes slowly opened and, from behind Kyle's blinding hair, he gave Stan and Bebe a satisfied grin, allowing Kyle to lick his curved lips while he silently gloated. They fell back down onto the couch together, and Craig managed to lift Kyle onto his lap so that he was straddled. Unable to move without throwing the redhead off of him, Craig shut his eyes again and allowed himself to smooth his hands over Kyle's behind, leisurely groping his property.

"Ugh!" Bebe squealed. "Come on, Stan."

"Where are we going?" Stan asked as Bebe dragged him away by his sleeve.

"Who cares? Away from here!" Her voice trailed off.

"Yes, yes!" someone cheered, clapping, approaching the couch. "Good god, that was entertaining."

Even with Craig's hands over his ears, Kyle knew that voice anywhere.

"Seriously Eric," Wendy shrilled. Even when Craig and Bebe were fighting, she hadn't sounded _this_ angry. "Just what the fuck are you doing?"

"Me? What am _I _doing? Why, I'm just trying to enjoy the bitch fight between Craig and that bottle-blonde ho." Kyle opened his eyes and glanced up to see Cartman cupping Wendy's sharp chin with his thick fingers. "And might I add, bitch," Cartman slurred. "It was _quite amusing_."

"Get off me, Eric," Wendy warned.

"Aw, come on!"

"I told you," she said threateningly. "If you bring that pathetic little wretch anywhere near my house—"

"Ay! You know he's insignificant!"

"I'm what?" Butters' voice rang like a little bell, and it was disconcerting, because Kyle hadn't realized he was at the party, let alone in the room.

"—there would be severe consequences."

At this statement, Kyle pushed away from Craig, and they both stared up at the disturbing tableau of Wendy, Cartman, and Butters, spit-slick lips still hanging open.

"I'm a reasonable girl, Eric." Wendy breathed his name with a kind of thick importance, like just chanting the syllables made the mucus in her lungs congeal a little faster. "I asked you not to come here _with him_."

"He's nothing!"

"Hey!" Butters cried. "I am not nothing! My mother says I—"

"Oh, shut _up_, Butters," Cartman sighed.

"Okay," Butters agreed sadly.

"Look, he listens to everything I say," Cartman announced. "I said, 'Ay! Butters! Don't get between me and Wendy!' And he listened."

"But you don't listen to me!" Wendy hissed. "I said not to bring that _thing_ into my house!"

"Now, I am getting mighty sick of—"

"Shut up, Butters!" Wendy and Cartman roared simultaneously.

"See, it's fine."

"It is not fine!" Wendy choked. "Don't you see what you're doing to me?"

"I told you—"

"And I told you, if you're going to fake-date that pathetic little faggot, don't you ever bring him near me, or my house, or my friends! You told me all you were going to do was use him to piss off Kyle. Now look what it's turned into! He's following you around everywhere! People think you're dating him!"

"No one's dumb enough to think that!"

Butters sighed dramatically, and shrugged off, struggling to fit his hands in the pockets of his skin-tight, pink vinyl pants.

Wendy and Cartman continued hollering at one another

"What the fuck dude?" Kyle whispered to Craig.

"Shhh." Craig put a hand on Kyle's knee. "We gotta listen to this shit. Lie low." Kyle hopped off of Craig's lap and hunkered down on his shoulder.

"When I fell in love with you it was because your plots had meaning!" Wendy was crying. "Now look at you! Pretending to be gay with Butters! Why can't you pretend to be gay with _me_?"

"Because you're a chick, bitch! It wouldn't work!"

"Work what?" Wendy shot back. "Where is the end of this scheme?"

"I don't know!"

"Exactly!"

"Why do all my schemes have to have a point?" Cartman asked. "Why can't I just do something because I enjoy it?"

"But your enjoyment is coming at my expense!"

"But that's what you like about me!" Cartman protested. "You like that I put me before you all the time. That's what you said!"

"But now you're fake-putting Butters before you!"

"Only to get to Kyle!"

"Oh, fuck Kyle!"

"I'm going to," Craig whispered. Kyle put a hand over his mouth. He couldn't believe no one was paying attention to them on the couch. The entire room was gaping at Cartman and Wendy and the unbelievably surreal fight they were engaged in.

"I need someone who inspires me," Wendy moaned. "Why can't you blind some puppies or something? Why does it always have to be _Kyle_?"

"Because puppies don't cry when you slap them. About the only similarity between Kyle and a puppy is the uncontrollable urge to stick its nose between Stan Marsh's legs."

"Oh, he doesn't even care! He's too busy with Craig on the couch over there." Wendy stopped and turned. Craig and Kyle both sat up sheepishly.

"Hey Wends," Craig said cheerfully. "How's that relationship with Cartman going?"

"Godammit Craig!" Wendy burst. "Just go."

Craig shrugged and pulled a still-shocked Kyle off of the couch. He toddled off to go get their coats, leaving Kyle by the door on his own, with about 40 or so pairs of eyes staring at him

"Uh," was all Kyle managed.

"Thanks for the hospitality!" Craig cried as he bounced back into view. The door slammed shut behind them as they left.

Outside the house, Kyle heard someone call his name. He looked into the distance to see Kenny standing there, flanked by a shadowy figure who was apparently lighting Kenny's cigarette. Kyle scrunched his face oddly, and Craig whispered the identity of Kenny's suitor into his boyfriend's ear.

"Huh," Kyle replied, neither surprised nor impressed.

"Where are you guys going?" Kenny asked, exhaling some smoke.

"Probably to commit sodomy," Christophe said, bored. "Where else is there to go?"

"Exactly Chris," Craig said amiably. "My thoughts exactly."

"We've just been there," Kenny said with a grin.

"Oh, fucking shit," the Frenchman slurred. "God resents braggarts, mon amour." It was at this point that Kyle noticed that Christophe was holding both a cigarette and bottle of wine in a paper bag in the same hand. Switching his grasp to take a drag, Christophe proffered the wine to Craig, who took the bottle and happily gulped some down, finishing with a dramatic wipe of his palm against his grinning lips. Craig angled the bottle at Kyle, who scowled down at it, then back up at Craig. Kenny and Christophe gave each other a meaningful look, while the both continued to smoke.

Noticing Kyle's discomfort at this odd moment, Kenny snatched the bottle back from Craig. "How's the party?" the blonde boy asked.

"Pretty bad," Kyle said. "But how the hell would I know, being this sadly sober?"

"Oh, bitch," Craig said dismissively. "It's hilarious. If you hurry you'll catch the tail end of Cartman and Wendy slugging it out."

"Really? They're speaking again?" Kenny asked. "Poor Butters."

"I don't feel sorry for him," Christophe announced. "I can tell you about suffering."

"See, that's what I think," Kyle announced, finding it curious that he and the Mole apparently agreed on something.

"Well, this is great," Craig said impatiently, laying a muffled slap to Kyle's behind. "But we have places to be."

"People to mount?" Kenny asked, rubbing his hands together, cigarette dangling from his chapped lips.

"Yeah, probably," Craig garbled, no longer really interested in talking any more.

"Let me know what happens," Kenny said, giving Kyle a lewd, albeit sarcastic, wink .

"I don't think so," Kyle said simply.

"Chris," Craig said warmly, giving the shaggy-haired boy a brotherly nod.

"Craig," Christophe replied. He and Kenny proceeded into the Testaburger home, and Craig and Kyle continued on their way, the vibration of bass in the ground stilling as they moved closer toward their final destination.


	7. Chapter 7

Kyle was getting awfully sick of being led around town by Craig. It seemed like all they did was sludge around South Park, running into swarthy Cockney assholes who were boning his friends. Never mind that this was the first time Kyle had actually _seen_ Kenny with Christophe, which honestly was probably due to the fact that he just hadn't been paying any attention to his highly mortal friend's social life. The whole walk back to Craig's house, Kyle kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road. He wasn't drunk at all, and this was no good. He was feeling quite apprehensive about things, or maybe just pensive. He wondered what Stan was doing. He _knew_ Stan didn't care what _he_ was doing. The wind was cold and fierce and incredibly dry, whipping his hair into a frenzy. At least it was finally tame. Tame for Craig. Kyle stumbled over some logs in someone's driveway. They kept walking, Craig squeezing the blood out of his hand.

At Craig's, the black-haired boy led Kyle up to his room and, once there, made his move swiftly and aggressively. Without removing his jacket — or giving Kyle the chance to take off his coat — Craig was upon him, making quick work of slobbering on his stinging lips like a puppy. Kyle felt his ass press into Craig's door, while Craig repeatedly tried to burrow his erection into Kyle's hip, and his nose into Kyle's cheek.

"You're so cold," he breathed, taking a pause as he let his jacket fall off of his shoulders. Not knowing what else to do, Kyle took this opportunity to remove his pea coat and flung it onto the floor. Craig's room was cold, the air unmoving. His windows were a little fogged, and Kyle could hear the wet rags of his breath. Craig gave him a crazy look, like a wolf or a fox, and then he threw Kyle onto the bed where they continued to kiss, Craig burying his face every so often in Kyle's stiff, fragile hair. He ran his fingers through it, and gave a little tug. And, feeling his digits slip a bit, he gave a sigh and said, "I much prefer it curly," at which Kyle sat up and brushed off the front of his shirt.

"I don't believe that," he said.

"Believe it or not but it's true. If I could just lose my hands in your hair for eternity I'd be just so pleased."

"That's weird, Craig," Kyle replied.

"Well, shit, I guess I must be weird then." Craig unbuttoned his pants and flung himself back at Kyle, whose own bottoms he struggled to get off. If he'd been in a better mood, a drunker mood, he'd have gladly just taken them off for Craig, and let the other boy have his way, or have several of his ways. Right now though, he just felt weird. Maybe the right word was gross. He felt gross, and not particularly right. It wasn't that he didn't want this — Craig had been astoundingly good up to this point, the confidence he had in his own abilities having been truly earned by a few years of practice. Another boy, for example, would have tried to avoid disturbing his busted lip, handling Kyle like a bone china teacup, attempting to work around his fading bruises. Craig liked to work _through_ these injuries. In combination with Kyle's metabolic disorder, which generally made him slower-to-heal than most, he had been subtly damaged for the better part of the last several weeks. Maybe now it was closing in on two months. Kyle didn't know. Craig could keep track of this shit all he liked, but the only things Kyle had set on his calendar were the end of school, and his coming birthday.

So as Craig ran his teeth over the hardened scab on his lower lip, Kyle pushed back unenthusiastically with his tongue, and tried to comprehend how he felt about this. Craig was wonderful, really. He was good-looking, and he carried himself with such proud gait that it was nearly impossible for Kyle not to be drawn to his shimmering charisma and self-satisfied demeanor. These things were attractive, but it was Craig's insatiable need for Kyle that the red-haired boy really found compelling. Cartman had teased him about it before, albeit with Stan as the subject of the ridicule, but he was ultimately correct: Kyle wanted to be wanted. He liked that Craig wanted him. It somehow transcended the ordinary drunken blow jobs he'd grown accustomed to administering to anyone who didn't leap off a bed and run away: Craig's entirely sober interest in Kyle as a person was enough reason to like him. That Craig was a masterful lover was important and fantastic, sure, but an honest relationship, Kyle repeated in his mind as Craig finally succeeded in discarding Kyle's pants (and, along with it, his underwear) was that the person he was with made a connection to him that existed outside of the realm of the carnal.

Although, speaking of the realm of the carnal, Craig was now unbuttoning his own shirt, and muttering some of what Kyle knew would be sexy come-ons _if_ he could hear them, which he couldn't over the pounding of blood in his ears, and the twin needs that were beginning to pull him in opposite directions like he was being drawn and quartered: There was his erection, which was beginning to strain against Craig's hairy thighs. And then there was his mind, which was screaming at him to stop this, right now. And beyond that, he was trying to figure out why, why should he stop this. God, he was miserable trying to determine why he felt so on edge about this. What would Stan do in this situation? That was ridiculous. Stan would never make out with Craig, would never let Craig tug his shirt off like he was a limp rag doll just waiting to be exposed for devious and demonic reasons. Which was what Kyle felt like with Craig; he was a little rag doll to be played with, swung around and bashed against things. And yet he was loved, adored, taken everywhere and shown off as a prized possession. He was the most valued thing Craig had.

This was all becoming very confusing when he felt some foreign objects pressing on his lips. Craig's right middle and index fingers were trying to wedge their way into Kyle's mouth, and Kyle without thinking opened his mouth and allowed Craig to practically gouge his gums before he got the idea and tightened his lips, giving the digits a good and thorough sucking. He moaned around the fingers, humming a little tune to himself. Craig was grinning with a kind of feral lust that one usually only saw in large felines.

As Craig used his right hand to finger-fuck Kyle's mouth, he reached behind himself with the left, fumbling around the pants he'd already thrown off. Kyle tried to ask him what he was doing, but Craig was now using all of his fingers (but not his thumb), so this question only came out flattened-sounding — although given the context, Craig could have made it out if he had _really _wanted. But no, he was busy grasping at something.

"Aha!" Craig cried, whipping a condom out from behind him. He waved it above Kyle's eyes, and Kyle glanced up at it, sticky little patches of drool at the corners of his mouth and under his bottom lip.

Without another word, Craig slipped his fingers out of Kyle's mouth and, as quickly as he'd withdrawn them, he replaced them with his tongue. Out of the corner of his left eye, Kyle could see the other boy's rushed condom application, and he could swear he felt and heard Craig sighing around his tongue as he succeeded in this goal. It wasn't much, but he got the sensory picture. He wanted to see more, but it was hard to see Craig's dick with his face in the way.

They continued kissing, and Craig was groping his ass. Then, suddenly, Craig was no longer groping Kyle's ass; he was doing a mediocre job of lubing up his fingers. Craig never stopped making out with Kyle while he did this. He just reached over to his nightstand and procured a little thing of K-Y.

Sweating, Kyle felt Craig's wet fingers begin to probe around his ass. He began to clench his ass together, although it wasn't happening voluntarily — it was just a reaction.

"What's wrong?" Craig asked, his generally nasal voice a little breathier now.

"Hmm?"

"You need to push out," Craig said wisely. "Push onto my fingers."

"Fuck," Kyle said, lifting his head and wiping some damp, limp hair out of his eyes. Generally the weight of his variously sized curls was significant, but this was a different feeling — his hair felt lighter, less substantial. Kyle blinked at Craig, and Craig continued to thumb Kyle's right nipple with his left hand while he used the other one in an attempt to gain entrance. "Craig." Kyle swallowed. Then he frowned. "You've been fingering me for like two months."

Craig rolled his eyes. "Uh huh."

"So, I know what to do."

"Okay."

"So don't treat me like a baby."

"Then why aren't you letting me in?" Craig asked, his thumb stilling. Kyle shrugged. "Do you not want this?"

"No," Kyle said slowly. "I do."

Not knowing what else to do, Craig grabbed his dick and squeezed it. "Well, I really do, so can you just let me lube you already?"

"I don't know. I'm, um." Pause. "I'm not really very … ready." Kyle saw Craig's lips instantly tighten, and his eyebrows rise.

Craig and Kyle were facing each other, kneeling, on Craig's bed. Craig had a condom on, and he was holding Kyle's right side while his slippery right hand cupped Kyle's left butt cheek, the middle finger of that hand resting inside of the cleft. Kyle had been holding onto Craig, but in the past two minutes, he'd let go. Now he was just holding himself.

"You don't want to do this," Craig said. He wasn't asking Kyle; he was speaking to himself.

"I want to," Kyle said. "But, it's just … do you know, when you want to do something, and you think you can, and you know you should, but … you just can't bring yourself to do it?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"This is _sex_," Craig scoffed. "You have to want to do it. Look at your cock, dude!"

"I know." Kyle sighed, shifting his thighs slightly. "But can't we just do what we usually do?"

"I guess."

"It's just—"

"Do you want _me_ to bottom?"

"No, Craig, I … I don't think I could do that to you."

"It's okay, I'm game."

"No, I mean … I couldn't do that to _you_."

"I don't care if you fuck me in the ass, I don't have a problem with it. But I'm a really good top. You should let me top."

"Craig," Kyle said directly, putting his hands on Craig's shoulders. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. "_I can_not_ have sex with you_."

"Well, why not?" Craig's voice was climbing back up to an unnecessary pitch.

Kyle opened his eyes and looked back up at Craig. "Well … Jesus. Craig, I'm, well … I think maybe I'm _scared_."

"Oh," Craig said. "Is that all? C'mere, baby." Craig finally moved his hands from where they'd been for the past several minutes, and wrapped Kyle in his arms. "It's okay. We can go really slow, or we can do it another time. I know my cock is huge. I'd be scared too."

"No, you don't understand," Kyle said. His neck was resting on Craig's shoulder, and he honestly felt he was being slightly strangled. "I'm not scared of things in my ass, Craig."

"Well, what are you scared of?" Now Craig's voice was audibly annoyed, and Kyle silently wished that this tone didn't make his chest constrict so.

"I'm just getting a feeling. I'm afraid of what it means, and … I'm sorry, but I just. Well." Kyle hugged Craig a little tighter. "I need to be with someone who makes me feel safe."

"You mean, someone in general?" Craig asked this pointedly. "Or someone specific?"

"Specific," Kyle sighed. "Craig, I—"

Craig let go, and fell back onto his ass. No longer kneeling, he shook his head.

"Kyle." Craig shut his eyes. "I can't fucking believe I'm saying this." Craig opened his eyes, and then he closed them again. He covered his closed eyes with his hand. "I love you," he said very quickly, as if it were one word.

"I know." Craig could swear he heard Kyle choking a little.

"I said I love you!" Craig grabbed Kyle by his upper arms. "Doesn't that mean _anything_ to you?"

"I love you too. But this love, it's—"

"It's not _Stan_," Craig said snidely, eyes narrowing.

Kyle swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"You can't have sex with me," Craig breathed. "Because I'm not Stan Marsh."

"Please don't say it like that," Kyle moaned. "It doesn't matter. It's just what it is."

"No, _this_ is what it is." Craig raised both middle fingers. "Get out of my house now," he concluded.

Kyle's face went red. "What? I don't want to leave you!" he protested.

"Well, um, actually, Kyle? I'm leaving _you_."

"Excuse me?"

"I can't do this." Craig slipped off his bed and picked up his shirt from the floor where it had fallen when he'd taken it off. He slipped it on and said, "Not wanting to bottom during sex with my enormous member, that I can live with. But I refuse under any circumstances to be your Stan Marsh substitute. So you know what, I think this relationship has reached its end."

"I don't want to break up!" Kyle gripped the bedspread. "I like dating you! I like _you_!"

"But you don't love me."

"Why do I have to _love_ you?"

"Because," Craig said bitterly.

"Please don't do this to me. Craig, I've never — I've never been loved like this by anyone. Please, don't do this to me."

"Fuck!" Craig kicked his nightstand, pretending not to hear Kyle's pleadings. "Why am I still so fucking hard?" He looked down at his dick, condom still included. "Ugh, gah, I can't deal with this. I'll jack it after you go. Just please, please go quickly."

"I don't want to go!" Kyle said frantically.

"Well, I'm asking you to leave, please."

"I don't want to!"

"I know that!" Craig snapped. "God fucking dammit!" Craig grabbed Kyle again and shook him, although not particularly fast or hard. "I fucking love you, you dick, and you don't even have the presence of mind to lie about why we can't fuck! Jesus!"

"I love you too," Kyle whimpered.

"No, you love Stan and his complete lack of acknowledgment of the fact that you've been fucking pining away for him for fucking _ever_. You don't even love me enough to lie to me to spare my feelings!"

"You're yelling at me."

"Of course I am!" Craig smacked his own forehead.

"I don't want to break up," Kyle repeated, slipping off the bed and onto his knees.

"It's not about you!"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"What if Stan told you he loved you, but he didn't mean it, he was just lonely because he was in love with some chick who didn't like him back because she was a dyke, and you were dying to have sex with him but he told you he couldn't because you weren't that girl, how would you feel about that?"

"Excuse me?"

"If Stan led you on! How would you feel if he told you he loved you and you knew he didn't because he made it perfectly clear that he was just using you?"

"I," Kyle sniffed. "I would feel horrible."

"Would you be angry? Would you ever really want to see him again?"

"But I'd still love him," Kyle rationalized.

"And I fucking love you, but I can't be a pathetic waste of life. So please, Kyle, _please_." Craig paused and pulled the condom off of his gradually softening member. "Get the fuck out of my house!"

XXX

At half past 4 a.m., it was quiet in the Broflovski house. Kyle sighed heavily as he turned the key in the door, glad to be done with his freezing trek home. For some reason, without Craig at his side, it felt longer than the several short blocks it truly was. It was not until Kyle was hanging up his coat on the rack by the door that he realized how much he missed Craig's stupid nattering about dumb crap. In fact, maybe it wasn't dumb crap. Kyle had been whimpering a little when Craig kicked him out, but the wind on his face and his general shock has kept him from full-out starting to cry. Which was fine with him — he wasn't sure what he was feeling. Betrayal, maybe? A little stupid, too — he knew Craig was right, saving it wasn't doing him any good, he didn't know when to take a good opportunity and go with it. Maybe after he slept he could figure out how he felt, other than stupid. This had all happened in the past hour, after all.

He removed his shoes so he could pat up the stairs without making a racket, and without waking up his family. Kyle told himself he should be determined to get to bed without any additional drama, so he slipped into the quiet of the bathroom to brush his teeth and get to sleep. This plan was going fine, just fine, until he snapped on the bathroom lights and saw his mother's straightening iron on the counter, cord hanging languidly, plug barely brushing the floor. To the right of the iron was the bouquet of lilies he'd just left there, sitting there with a sleek black ribbon around the stems.

Kyle burst into tears.

He backed away from the counter, but he apparently forgot the dimensions of the bathroom he'd been using for 15 years, because he felt his head hit the wall. With one hand on his mouth and one hand bracing himself against the warped plaster, Kyle tried to get himself to stop crying. He felt like he could barely breathe, as if for the first time in his life the pathetic air of South Park's absurd altitude was finally too thin, and he couldn't get enough oxygen in his lungs. He felt like he needed all of it, like nobody else was entitled to any. He touched his upper lip to the bottom of his nose. It felt slick with mucus, and sure enough he tasted salt again.

What the fuck was wrong with Craig? Kyle wished Craig were there with him, in the bathroom, like he had been before, watching this pathetic display. Then he would see just what kind of damage he was doing, what a fucking prick he was. Even though he was apparently entirely hard-up with common sense, Craig had some residual compassion; surely if he saw how awful Kyle felt he'd change his mind, reverse this fucking train wreck. Kyle shut his eyes and thought about what it would be like if Craig decided to go after him, got the key out from under the welcome mat, ran up the stairs to the bathroom, found this scene — playing these visuals in his head made Kyle cry harder. He could barely open his eyes.

But open them he did, and he saw himself in the mirror. Looking back at him was a boy with impeccably styled red hair, drawn to the side with a dramatic sweep. But his face was red, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and his lips were swollen to twice their normal size. Worse, down his bottom lip was the fading indentation of that horrible fucking laceration from last month. After watching himself cry until he could no longer bear to see how fucking terrible he looked, he turned away. Thank god Craig couldn't see this — he was hideous.

Kyle's eye caught those calla lilies again. There they were, mocking him, so large and full at the peak of their bloom. With an instinctual jolt, Kyle snapped them up from the counter and, grasping them with both hands, he began to smash the flowers against the surface of the counter. He kicked the cabinet and screamed in agony, watching small pieces of waxy white flower begin to bruise and smear against the rim of the sink.

Kyle didn't know if this was therapeutic or not. It felt kind of good. He groaned, and it was kind of releasing. The kicked the cabinet door again, and this time it hurt a bit. But even that felt kind of good.

"Kyle?"

Kyle stopped, swallowed, and gasped a little. He saw his younger brother's black eyes focused on him through a crack in the door.

"Are you okay? You woke me up." Ike pushed the door open, and he wasn't smiling. That was weird. Ike was almost always smiling. Kyle didn't say anything. He just sniffled.

Ike widened the door and stepped inside the bathroom, which was about the right size for two people. "It's almost 5," Ike said seriously, rubbing an eye. "Why aren't you in bed?" Ike looked up at him again. "Are you sure you're okay?" he repeated.

Without any idea why, Kyle smacked his brother across the face. "I didn't say I was okay you fucking retard!"

"Shit, dude, don't hit me," Ike growled back.

"Don't hit you?" Kyle would have laughed at this normally, but he wasn't in much of a laughing mood, even ironically. "Don't fucking invade my privacy, you little piece of crap!"

"You woke me _up_," Ike squeaked. Ike felt the damaged bouquet hit him in the face. "Did something happen?" he asked, bending over to pick up the flowers.

Kyle whimpered again, not really sure what the fuck he was doing. He just saw this tiny little Canadian kid with black shaggy hair holding a bundle of thick green stems with a half-undone black ribbon, and he couldn't stop himself from pounding said kid in the face.

"Jesus Christ!" Ike shrieked, dropped what was left of the flowers, and tried to shield himself with his hands. "What the fuck!"

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

"I didn't so anything to you, stop!"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Kyle, stop!" Kyle didn't stop. Ike was not especially big, but he was clever, and he knew his brother. He didn't see any of that well-meaning rationalism in the older boy's eyes. All he saw was a crazy person freaking out. So he hopped backward and assumed some kind of stance. Kyle tilted his head and looked at this display, but he didn't say anything. "I am a blue belt," Ike breathed, although the fear in his voice did betray him a little. "If you keep hurting me, I _will_ tell Mom."

Kyle shook his head. "Are you going to fight me? Or are you going to tell on me?"

"I don't know," Ike said honestly. "Which are you more afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," Kyle said. Then he pressed his lips together and shut his eyes tightly. Ike could see he was trying not to cry again.

"What happened?" the little boy asked.

The question made Kyle angry again, apparently, because he did resume crying, and he also went back to the sloppy business of punching Ike. With a sigh, Ike solidified his defensive block and screamed, "Mom!"

Kyle got in maybe another two hits before both of his parents appeared on the scene, his mother clad in a ridiculous pink robe. "What what _what_?" she screeched.

"Jesus, Kyle!" his father screamed, grabbing one of his wrists. "What the hell are you doing?"

Kyle looked up at his mother, who had her arms locked around Ike's chest protectively. She was staring at him, her lips parted, disbelieving the scene she'd just witnessed. Kyle tried to jerk his arm away from his father, but he couldn't.

"What in the world is wrong with you?" the man asked, dropping his son's wrist.

He looked up at his father, and then at his mother. They were both giving him death stares, and beginning to panic he spouted out, "Craig dumped me!"

"So you take it out on your brother?" Sheila asked.

"Why can't he just leave me alone?"

"I was only asking if you were okay."

"It's none of your business!"

"You woke me up!"

"You're just making it worse!" Kyle shouted.

"Nothing gives you the right to hit your brother!" Gerald reprimanded.

"Why do you always take his side?" Kyle asked, bottom lip quivering pathetically. "Can't you see I'm in pain?" He began crying again, and put his face in his hands.

"Gerald," Sheila said softly. "Why don't you get Ike a drink?"

"I'm not thirsty," Ike said.

"Don't smart off," his mother warned him. "Off you go, bubbe. Go with your father, he'll get you some nice juice."

Ike turned to go, grumbling, and Sheila swatted him on the butt. Gerald began to follow him, but paused on his way out to ask his wife, "What are you going to do with him?"

"I'll figure it out," Sheila shrugged. There was a pause of silence between them, and Kyle's sobbing filled the small room.

"Well, okay," Gerald conceded, following his younger son downstairs.

"What is the matter with you?" Sheila asked, hands on her hips.

Sniffing, Kyle wiped his eyes. "I feel so awful," he managed. "Why doesn't he want me anymore?"

"Oh, bubbelah," Sheila sighed. "Come here." Kyle tentatively stepped forward, and his mother wrapped him in her arms, smashing his wet cheeks again her ample chest. "Any boy who doesn't want you is a fool, Kyle."

"He's not a fool, he's—"

"Shhh, don't talk over me."

"But I—"

"No, shhh, listen." She began to pet his hair. "You are the smartest, cleverest, handsomest boy in this little redneck town. Anyone who doesn't see that isn't worth a minute of your time."

"You don't understand," Kyle sniffed, lifting his head. "He knows all that. That's not why."

"Then why?"

"This is so embarrassing," Kyle moaned. "I haven't cried like this since—"

"Let's not talk about it," Sheila suggested. She paused. "I think I hear your father and Ike coming back up. Do you want to talk in the kitchen? I can make you something nice, hmm?"

"I don't know…"

"Yes, come downstairs. Don't be shy, come on."

"I feel really stupid now," Kyle said. He wiped at some sticky tear residue on his cheek. "I think I should go to bed."

"I changed your diapers, Kyle. Trust me, I've seen you at your stupidest." And without waiting for answer, she turned and left the bathroom, leaving him standing there. Although she hadn't said anything, the implication was clear: He would follow her to the kitchen, or … well, in this case there was no 'or.' He would follow her to the kitchen.

She made him a cup of tea and set the mug down in front of him at the table, nodding at it. "Drink," she said sweetly. Kyle wasn't thirsty, wasn't cold, didn't want a cup of tea. But he looked at it and looked at her, flinching momentarily before lifting the mug to his lips with both hands.

"That's it," Sheila said sweetly. "Good boy."

Kyle hated the way his mother calmly instructed him. It was so false — a kind of self assurance that only comes from being absolutely certain all of one's own orders are going to be strictly followed. It was something like a religious code of laws in that sense.

As thirsty as he wasn't, there was something about drinking this tea that made Kyle feel a little better, and his heart beat a little slower. So he continued drinking, and listened to his mother while she spoke.

"There is no excuse for this behavior," she said. "What have I always told you?"

"Don't make a scene?"

"Exactly. Don't make a scene. And don't attack your brother!"

"But he was—"

"Oh, knock it off with this 'he was' and 'he wasn't' stuff. He's a little boy! And he looks up to you."

"I don't know why," Kyle sniffed. "I fucking suck."

"Language!"

"Well, I do," Kyle continued. "I can barely keep a boyfriend for two months."

Sheila sighed, and slumped in her seat. Because of her size and shape, it might have been difficult to discern a difference between this and sitting up straight. But she was his mother, so Kyle could. He also knew that her relaxed posture was not necessarily defeat; it was pensive. He watched her intently, and she rubbed her hands together.

"What happened?" she asked slowly.

Kyle grimaced, not really wanting to tell her. But he knew he had no choice. It was just something he would have to do. "We were, um, fooling around, you know…"

She raised her eyebrows. Kyle stopped talking. "Go on," she urged him. "I'm not going to punish you." She crossed her arms.

Kyle exhaled. "Well, I didn't want to, and, uh … are you really going to make me say it?"

"No, I understand. Keep going."

"Well, basically, I told him I couldn't, uh, the thing, because, well … I just didn't want to with him." Kyle swallowed. "In retrospect I think I should have."

"Oh, no, I think you made the right choice." She took his hand across the table, and gave him a warm smile. It was creepy. Why was he telling his mother these things? "It's important not to rush."

"Yeah, I know," Kyle agreed, desperately hoping his mother didn't know the extent to which he'd actually gone with Craig, or with several others at that.

"Besides," Sheila continued. "It's like I said, you're such a special boy. I wouldn't want you with some shmuck who just wants you for a lay."

At this, Kyle tensed up, and let go of her hand. "Don't hate Craig."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Well, he really didn't just want to do it, he wanted … well, he wanted me to love him basically, and—"

"You love Stanley," Sheila said.

Kyle's face went pink, and he nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"I get it now," she said knowingly. "You didn't want to be with Craig _like that_ because you're saving it for Stanley."

"Oh, _fuck_."

"I think it's very sweet."

"Sweet? _Sweet_? That's like my biggest secret!"

"Not really."

"Well, how the fuck do you _know_ _that_?" Kyle spit out. He got up from the chair and began to pace. "Jesus Christ, Mom! I'd ask if you were reading my diary, except you can't be getting this from there because I don't have one!"

"I know," she said wistfully.

"You checked?"

"All mothers check around their son's rooms," she said calmly.

"Oh, this is just _great_!"

"Kyle, please, I _do your laundry_. I vacuum. Who do you think dusts under the bed?"

Kyle moaned. "This fucking sucks! Why the fuck do you know everything about me?"

"I'm your mother," she said simply.

"That's not good enough!" Kyle sat back down, and put his hands back in his head, and then he was back to where he'd started: crying. "Why can't I have my own life? Why do you do this to me?"

She got up from her seat and moved over to him, rubbing her son's shoulders as he cried. "It's not all bad," she said. "I can help you, Kyle. I don't want to see you upset."

"You know about _Stan_?" he asked back.

"Well, it _is_ relatively obvious."

"How obvious?"

She sighed, mournfully. "Eh, I don't know, when you bring him over for Shabbat dinner and you ask him if he wants green beans, whenever he says yes you're so happy, you serve him the whole dish. That's how I know."

"_That_'s how you know?"

"Oh, shhh." She stroked his hair. "We'll fix this."

"Fix this?" Kyle asked, lifting his head and shoving her off of him. "Fix it _how_? Craig at least liked me a lot, but he's gone now!"

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have told him you like Stanley."

He paused to wonder how exactly she knew this, but then he shook his head and replied, "Well, no shit! I wouldn't be down here at 5 a.m. crying about this crap with my _mother_ if I hadn't! I'd be getting nice and fucked up my ass and probably pretty fucking happy about it, instead of crying in your tits like a pussy little girl!"

"Language," she reminded him.

"Language? Are you insane? Your son is sitting here crying like a baby because he got dumped by the second biggest whore in school and you're worried about language? It's a little fucking late for that now, Mom, don't you think?"

She didn't flinch at this. "Who is the first biggest whore?" she inquired. Kyle just crossed his arms and lowered his head. "I see," she said knowingly. She sat back down. "It seems to me," she began, taking a sip of her lukewarm tea, "that we need to get you involved in something that will take your mind off of Stanley. Maybe you should spend some time with some other friends for a while?"

"Oh, and which friend would that be?" Kyle asked. "The fat piece of shit who beat me to a bloody pulp, the little faggot retard 'dating' him—" Kyle made air quotes "—or the trailer trash whore balling that fucking British turd?"

"Good point," Sheila agreed. "What about that study?"

"What study?" he wiped his eyes again.

"The one, with the man, from North Carolina? You know, Mr. Granger?"

"Granger? Yeah, he's a complete douche, what about him?"

"Well, what have you done about that lately?"

"Huh." Kyle sniffed. "Um, well, I guess I haven't done anything."

"Well, come on, bubbe. You can't expect this to just go away on its own."

"I don't know," Kyle said tentatively. "I was kinda working on it with Craig, and then…"

"Well, forget Craig. What's that little shaygitz got that you need so badly anyway?"

"A really great cock," Kyle sighed.

"What what _what_?" Sheila put her chin in her palm and sighed. "Kyle, please, _language_."

"Sorry."

"That's a good boy." She turned to look at the clock over the oven. "Oh, look at the time," she said with fake awe. "Who knew how late it was! We should talk about this tomorrow. Maybe you should get a little sleep?"

"You think so?" Kyle asked, standing up. He tried to get out of the kitchen, but she grabbed him but the shoulders and spun him around.

"Kyle, listen to me. Everyone gets dumped. Everyone has unrequited love. Stanley isn't gay, is he?"

"No," Kyle sighed. "No, I really don't think so."

"Then the longer you wait for him, the worse it'll get."

"I can't help who I love," Kyle said pathetically, slumping.

"No, that's what quitters say. We'll work on this Mr. Granger, take your mind off of Craig, and Stan, all these worthless little goyim. You're too good for them all anyway, bubbe."

"If I'm too good for them," Kyle said to no one as he dragged himself upstairs, "why did you make me grow up in this fucking retard town with them?"

XXX

Kyle did feel tired, but it took him 39 minutes to fall asleep. He knew this because he lay there on his side, facing the red numbers of his clock, which taunted him from 4:56 to 5:35 a.m. When he was jolted awake at 11 a.m., he realized that in the previous night's fog of exhaustion and misery, he'd forgotten to turn off his alarm. He tried to get back to sleep for another 10 minutes or so, but while staring at the ceiling wide awake, the wide-open window rattling away, he realized that he was up, still exhausted, and single. So he got out of bed.

Breakfast sucked, as did coming into the kitchen to find his parents sitting at the table, newspapers strewn around in front of them. Gerald and Sheila stopped talking to each other, both looked up at him, and said nothing. Kyle paused in the doorway, sort of considering turning around, running upstairs, smashing his head against the wall for a couple of hours, and then maybe feeling further miserable in some sort of as-yet-undecided fashion for the remainder of the weekend. But before he could enact this plan, Gerald spoke to him.

"Good morning, Kyle," his father said pleasantly. His mother's eyes widened and she flashed her husband a sign of warning. Kyle still said nothing. Gerald proceeded with caution: "Sleep okay?"

"No."

Gerald looked to Sheila for help, and she cleared her throat. "Do you want me to make you something?" she asked hopefully.

"No."

"Really, Kyle," she said sternly. He shrugged and started making himself a bowl of cereal. "You could at least be pleasant." He continued to ignore her. "I know you're in a foul mood, but honestly." She sighed. "Nobody likes a jerk."

Kyle put away the box of cereal and slammed the cabinet door. He picked up his bowl of cereal and rolled his eyes. "Okay, Mom, here's what going to happen. I'm going to go eat this in the living room. You're both going to leave me alone because I feel like fucking crap. Understood?"

"Kyle!" his father exclaimed, coupled with his mother's standard interjection. But he just walked out of the kitchen, fell down on the living room couch, and turned to see his brother watching television quietly.

"Hi," he said sweetly.

"Oh, don't you 'hi' me!"

"What?" Ike asked. "Are you still in a bad mood?"

Kyle just groaned.

"Are you eating breakfast?"

"Obviously." Kyle looked at the TV. "What the fuck are we watching?" he asked.

"_SportsCenter_," Ike said.

"Well, turn that crap off." Kyle took a bite of some cereal. "I want to watch something else," he said through a full mouth.

"I was here first."

"I don't give a shit."

"Why are you so mean?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I am not mean. I am in _pain_."

"Be in all the pain you want," Ike said. "But don't be a bitch!"

"Give me that!" Kyle grabbed for the remote, which Ike was clutching in both hands.

"No!" Ike tugged on the device, which they were now struggling over. Kyle was still holding his bowl of cereal in one hand, so he reached over to set it down sloppily on the table next to the couch. A bit splashed out, but he didn't care. Fighting with Ike over the remote was far too interesting to him in this moment to worry about making a mess.

"Why can't you be cool?" Ike asked rhetorically, his dirty fingers slipping.

"Why don't you ever just let me be?" Kyle asked, although he was hoping for a response.

"I was here first!"

"Fucking just give me the remote, you little fucker!"

"You always take shit out on me!" Ike cried. "I am so fucking sick of it! You're such a damn fag!" Kyle was momentarily distracted; he'd never heard his brother say that word before. Bristling with anger, Kyle grunted and yanked the remote as hard as he could. With a smile, Ike gracefully let go, and Kyle tumbled backward, his head hitting the back of the sofa. The bowl of cereal wobbled a little, but only a bit sloshed over the sides. Now there were a few marshmallows sitting in a pool of dull white liquid on the table, and Kyle was half-on, half-off the couch, holding a remote control. Ike stood up and crossed his arms.

"I always wondered if I should try that," he said with some pleasantness in his voice. Clearly he was happy with himself. Kyle looked up at him, not sure if he wanted to attack verbally or physically, or just curl up into a ball and feel sorry for himself.

"You," he breathed.

"Have fun watching TV by yourself, shithead," Ike said cheerily. He then turned and ran upstairs, as if he were more terrified of retribution than he let on.

Picking himself up, Kyle left the cereal mess on the table and stomped into the kitchen. His parents were still sitting at the table; obviously they'd been listening.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked them, not bothering to explain.

"Nothing," his mother answered.

"You should really be nicer to your brother," Gerald added.

"Nicer?" Kyle asked, cheeks pinking.

"Kyle, bubbe," his mother said, indicating the chair next to her. "Come, sit."

"I'm not a fucking dog!" Kyle replied. "Don't tell me to sit!"

"Have a seat," his father sighed wearily. "We're not going to punish you."

"Punish me? That kid calls me a fag and you think _I_ should be punished?"

"Just sit down, Kyle." His father's voice was devoid of energy or amusement, and Kyle felt this was slightly serious, so he sat. "You think we don't know what goes on between you boys? I know younger brothers can be annoying, but you're six years older. There's something to be said for maturity."

"And patience," Sheila added.

"Patience? He goes in my _room_! I have no privacy!"

"You know, you could lock the door," Gerald suggested.

"Oh, really?" Kyle asked. "You really think he doesn't know how to pick a lock?"

"That's besides the point," Kyle's father amended. "Beating up your brother is never_ ever_ okay. Ever."

"But—"

"Never," Sheila clarified.

"This is so typical," Kyle moaned. "You." He turned to his mother and pointed at her. "You fucking think you're going to help me, and then you just set me up to get fucked over. You did it to me when I was 8, you did it to me when I was 11, and you fucking do it to me now."

Sheila made an unimpressed face and said, "I just want what's best for you."

"You have no fucking idea what the fuck is best for me!"

"Stop yelling at your mother."

"Why?" Kyle replied. "Every time she opens her fat bitch mouth I get fucked over!"

"This is ridiculous." Kyle's mother crossed her arms over her breasts. He had been expecting her to get up and slap him, but she didn't, and it caught him off-guard.

"Fuck both of you," Kyle concluded. "Just fucking fuck everyone." As he stormed out of the room, he heard his father call after him, but he knew neither of them would follow him upstairs.

He picked up his pants from the night before and got his cell phone out. He didn't know who to talk to, where to go … the phone began to ring and when he answered, his voice hitched before he croaked out a miserable, "I need help."

"What's wrong?" Stan asked. He was obviously trying to sound alert, but his voice betrayed him; he sounded preoccupied, or at least occupied, and drowsy.

"Craig dumped me."

"Oh," Stan said unenthusiastically. "I'm so sorry."

"You don't even know!" Kyle cried. "I gotta get out of here. Meet me in half an hour? I need some coffee or … something."

"I'm … not really out of bed yet," Stan said lamely.

"Well, get up!"

"Kyle, I'm—"

"You're what, you're…" Kyle trailed off when he heard a voice in the background. "Stanley," he said sweetly. "Who is _that_?"

"Oh." Stan sounded plenty unhappy. "That would be Bebe."

"Oh, it's just _Bebe_. Tell me, Stanley, why is Bebe at your house?"

"She's not. I'm at Bebe's house." Kyle felt the phone become incredibly slippery in his grasp, and he felt an incredibly unpleasant full feeling in his chest. His heart was beating fast, very fast, and with the hand that wasn't holding the phone he gripped his chest.

"Stanley," he panted. "Why … why are you at Bebe's house?" Stan didn't answer. Kyle thought, in the silence, he could hear Stan's tense breathing. He considered that maybe this was Bebe, but he didn't want to believe he was hearing her exhale over the phone. It was impossible. "Well, I'm terribly sorry to do this to you," he continued, "but please get up. I need you right now."

Stan's voice tightened into a harsh whisper, and he replied, "I can't just get up and leave her."

"You'd fucking better."

"_No_."

Another 30 seconds of short breathing, and Kyle felt his chest continue to tighten. He heard a stern, high voice in the background, but all he made out was the word "ridiculous" and a couple of select curses.

"I'm sorry," Stan said plainly. "I can come over later, maybe."

"Forget it!" Kyle screamed. "I just don't fucking care anymore!" He whipped the phone across the room, where it hit the wall, leaving a navy blue mark against the plaster. Still, the thing fell onto his desk largely intact, although he would never be able to control the volume again.

The impact had been strong enough to end the call, though, and Stan did not get in touch about later.

XXX

Monday was wet like a dishrag, gray and dirty, sad and lonely. Kyle felt like that, too — used, unclean, overloaded with metaphors of uselessness and irrelevance. Ike did not speak to him on the drive to school, and although he felt that some of the kids whose names he didn't know might have been leering at him in the hall, no one spoke to him. He stood in front of his locker shifting books around before stowing his hat. It was really too warm for a hat anymore, and Kyle only briefly considered wearing it anyway. But it was thickly humid, or thickly humid for South Park, and he wanted to feel himself sweat all day long even less than he wanted to be seen by anyone.

With a few minutes before first period, Kyle was approached by the person he least wanted to speak to. It was only as Craig was clearing his throat, paper grocery bag in hands, curled up neatly like an overgrown lunch sack, that Kyle really firmed up his decision not to wear a hat all day, because then he would be that much more like Craig.

"Hey," Craig said in that obtuse voice of his. "How are you?"

Kyle scowled and rolled his eyes and put on his most beleaguered expression. "I fucking suck; how are you?"

"Not so great," Craig confessed. He cleared his throat. "This is really hard to say, but I am sorry," he continued.

Kyle's eyebrows lifted, and his bottom lip trembled, although he did try to still it. "Oh?"

"Yeah, well … yeah. I don't want you to suck. I want you to be happy." Craig gave a weird little smile. It felt very un-Craiglike.

"So." Kyle swallowed. "We don't have to break up?"

Then Craig frowned, and sniffed. "No," he clarified. "We have to break up. Trust me."

"But, you said—"

"—I just don't necessarily want you to be unhappy," Craig repeated. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"Well, that's great, because you really did."

"And I feel pretty bad. But look." Craig sighed, and offered Kyle the bag. "It's your stuff back."

"How much stuff did I give you?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know. There are some underwear you left at my place. The left over ribbon, from the flowers on Saturday."

"Flowers," Kyle repeated stupidly.

"Yeah, they make you buy a whole fucking yard. Fuck that store, man. I wish there were another place to get ribbon in town."

"What else?" Kyle asked blankly.

"Not a lot," Craig confessed. "Pair of gloves you lent me … um, that Dana International CD."

Kyle felt his chest constrict, which was happening a lot lately. There was nearly no one in the hall now; class had started. His first instinct was to drop the bag and run, get to class, leave Craig behind. But he didn't. "I gave you that CD," Kyle moaned. "It … it was for _you_."

"I know. I just can't keep it."

"Come on, dude," Kyle whined. He shuffled his feet. "Don't do this to me."

"I gotta."

"But I _like_ you," Kyle said. "So much."

"I know," Craig signed. "I'm awesome. I give great hand jobs. I know you _like_ me. But I don't like you, I _love_ you, and it's just not going to work."

"All the seduction, all the preparation…"

"…I know." Craig crossed his arms. "But look. Sometimes, you work really hard to get something, and you know it's just not going to be the way you wanted it to be, and … oh, fuck me. I _thought_ I could make you love me, or something, but … fuck. Life is so short. I wanted it, we tried it, you're kind of a good cocksucker, but—"

Kyle's face turned bright pink, and he dropped the bag. "Kind of?" he cried. "_Kind of_?" This was the first thing Craig had ever said to him that he really found insulting.

"Whoa. Calm down."

"I am calm!" Kyle began to kick his locker.

"This would be cute if it weren't so cliché." Craig sighed and grabbed Kyle's shoulders to wrench him away from the locker. "Or maybe the cliché makes it cute?"

"I hate everything!"

"No you don't. You like Stan, for instance."

"I'm pissed at Stan!"

"You'll get over it."

Kyle straightened out his posture, and crossed his arms. He looked at the ground and gave the paper bag with the Dana International CD inside of it a little kick. "This sucks fucking _balls_, Craig." He looked down in shame and mumbled, "Please don't leave me."

Craig tried to put on a reassuring expression, but in his mind he could see himself looking like an escapee from an asylum, so he just frowned, and held Kyle by the shoulders again. "I'd be a fucking retard to tell you that that fucking loser breeder is ever going to be into you—"

"Oh, that just makes it _so_ much better!"

"—but I do think you will love someone eventually who isn't straight, and isn't just looking for a blowjob. But it's not going to be me." Craig leaned into Kyle, and carefully applied what was perhaps their briefest, driest kiss on the mouth yet. "Because you don't love me."

"No," Kyle admitted. "But why does it matter?"

"It matters to me." Craig dropped his arms, and shrugged. "You should go to class now."

"Where are you going to go?"

"I'm going to go sit in the library and be miserable for a while."

"Can I come with you?" Kyle asked, wiping his eyes.

"No. No, that would defeat the point."

"Why did you even like me at all?"

Craig shrugged. "You're just such a crazy bitch," he said hesitantly. "And your ass reminds me of one of those pincushions that's shaped like a tomato." Kyle put a hand to his mouth, and Craig said, "This is just dragging on forever. Talk to you later?"

"Sure," Kyle said. His hand was still over his mouth, so the word sounded garbled, which was fine, because he didn't really mean it. He watched Craig leave, narrowly missing the garbage can because he was looking at the floor as he departed. Now Kyle was alone in the hallway, and he was late for class. Silently, he picked up the paper bag and cradled it in the crook of his arm while he fiddled with his combination lock. He stashed the bag on the floor of the locker, and clicked the lock shut. He turned and slammed the locker closed with his behind, and went to class. His teacher asked him where he'd been, but he just shrugged and took a tardy, his first of the year.

XXX

For the first time in a long time, Kyle stood by himself in the lunch line. Some senior girls behind him were discussing Wendy's party of the previous weekend, and he understood them to be saying unfortunately disturbing things:

"I mean, I'd do him."

"Seriously? I heard he was dating that little fag from the social committee."

"I know, but that somehow makes it hotter."

"Who am I kidding? I'd do anyone from the football team."

"Tell me about it! Especially the quarterback! What's his name again?"

"I don't know, Sam or something…"

Kyle put his tray back down on top of the stack of trays, wiped the dampness off of his hands, and headed for his table. But even across the cafeteria he could see Craig's blue hat, and that Craig was sitting next to Thomas, probably complaining about his broken heart.

Well, it wasn't _his_ fault if Craig was miserable. Frankly, he was making Kyle just as if not _more_ miserable. So didn't he deserve to feel like shit? Kyle took some small solace in the fact that Craig would receive very little consoling out of Thomas, in between all the cursing and flinching. Bolstering himself, Kyle turned in the opposite direction and decided to go sit at the other table. It occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't spend lunch in the cafeteria anyway, since he wasn't eating and was trying to avoid pretty much anyone. He still felt like he was being watched as he dodged those same senior chicks who apparently had a _thing _for football players. But he felt like being around people was healthy, and as long as he didn't run into Craig, he didn't care how many people stared at him.

Kyle approached the table in trepidation, twisting the hem of his shirt in with his fingers. "Hey guys," he said softly. "Can I, um … can I sit here?"

Tweek looked up at him and opened his mouth, probably about to respond with a dramatic denial, but Kenny clasped a hand over his mouth and said, "Of course."

"Yeah," Clyde agreed. Kyle waited for another objection as Kenny uncovered Tweek's mouth, but the boy just shuddered and wrapped his arms around his own torso, shaking.

"Where's Stan?" Kyle asked Kenny as he took a seat.

"Stan?" Kenny asked. "I haven't seen him since Wendy's. I don't think he came to school today."

"Oh," was all Kyle said.

"Honestly I figured you'd have spoken to him."

"No," Kyle said glumly.

"Well, you look pretty miserable. What's up?"

Kyle looked around, and his lips quivered as he tried to decide if he wanted to talk to Kenny (and by default, Clyde and Tweek if they were paying any attention) about his problems. It was better than nothing, Kyle decided, so he announced, "Craig dumped me."

"Yeah, we know," Clyde said. Clearly he had been listening, even if he was eating a grilled cheese sandwich at the time.

"How do you know?" Kyle asked.

"Craig."

"Oh yeah."

Kyle gave a belabored sigh and scratched his head.

"What happened?" Kenny asked.

"I don't really know," Kyle mumbled.

"Craig said you were cheating on him or something," Clyde said casually.

"What?" All the color drained from Kyle's face. "He said that? I was _not_!"

"I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention," Clyde said dismissively. "He just said something about you and some other guy, and then I went to trig."

"Was Stan in trig?" Kyle asked.

"No," Clyde answered. "Sorry." He got up to go throw away his trash, taking his tray with him. Tweek, who had been sitting there for the duration of this exchange, popped out of his seat and gave Kyle a weird, evil look before rushing off after Clyde, hands in his pockets. It took Kyle a moment to realize that this was first time he'd spoken to Clyde directly in a long time, and he stared after him wistfully for a moment, appreciating the way his ass bounced as he walked, especially in comparison to Tweek's, which was barely existent.

"Well," Kenny said suddenly, yanking Kyle's attention away from the straight kids. "I'd say I'm sorry, but I don't think I am. I wasn't exactly rooting for you and Craig or anything."

"Oh, good," Kyle moaned sarcastically. "Well, I don't think Stan liked him much either. So it's good to know my friends had my back on this one."

"Kyle, please. We want you to be happy."

"Oh, so does everyone." This remark was also basically sarcastic. "And look at how fucking happy I am now."

"You really are a bitch," Kenny said, but there was no anger in his voice, and he was smiling a little. Kyle tried to return the smile, but it just turned to mush on his face, and he went back to blatantly suffering. "Come on, dude. It could be a lot worse. You could be dating Cartman or something." Kenny kind of chuckled at this, and he genuinely laughed when he saw upset this comment made Kyle.

"Please don't even go there," he gagged. "I heard some chicks in the lunch line talking about how they'd _do_ him. Him! With that, and Butters, and Wendy, it's just … my god, can you imagine?"

"I don't know," Kenny confessed. "I'd tap it if I got the chance."

"Dude!"

"Well, but I'd tap anything," Kenny clarified. "And besides, there's this thing with football players." He narrowed his eyes and said this very directly to Kyle. "If you know what I mean."

"_I do not know what you mean_."

"Whatever you say," Kenny sniffed. He picked up a banana and began to unpeel it. "This reminds me," he said brightly before taking a substantial bite. Then he spoke through a full mouth: "I wonder if Chris remembered to buy lube when he went to the drugstore last night."

"Kenny, please," Kyle moaned. "Why do you have to talk about that fucking loser while I'm sitting here?"

"Kyle." Kenny's voice was suddenly full of hurt. "I love him."

"I just got dumped is all." Kyle squeezed his eyes tightly. "Can't you be a little sensitive?"

"Oh." Kenny set down his banana, and finished swallowing a bite. "Poor thing. Do you want to come over after school and talk about it?"

"You mean that? I mean, I was just going to talk to Stan, but…" Kyle looked around. "I don't know where he is." He said this with perhaps the most pathetic, broken voice Kenny had ever heard him use.

"Yeah, sure." Kenny paused. "Maybe this is something you _shouldn't_ talk to Stan about." He paused again. "Yeah, come over after school."

"You mean it?"

"Yeah, but come over _directly_ after school. I have something I need to do later."

"You're such a good friend, dude," Kyle said sadly, clearly not focused on Kenny's instructions. "I don't deserve it."

"I know you don't," was all Kenny said in reply.

XXX

Cartman was not in Latin after lunch, and as Kyle shuffled his flashcards by himself, he breathed a sigh of relief that for once that day, something was going less than horribly for him. It was only before the period actually began when a crackling noise came over the loudspeaker that he realized Carman's absence was only a sick joke.

"Hey, you guys," the voice whined over the intercom.

"Oh, no," Kyle said aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. The girl next to him gave him a weird look, but he averted his look and gave her the finger.

"I'd like to dedicate this song to my friends Kyle and Craig," Cartman continued. "Love is just so fragile, you guys, my God. It's like, all about, feelings and stuff? And one day, you're dating the person who you think you love, and the next day, it turns out they're all in love with the quarterback of the football team, and stuff, and you just wanna be all, 'Ey! I did your hair for you, get on your fucking knees and blow me while I'm eating a sandwich!' But being gay is a bitch, you guys, I'm seriously."

"Eric, it's not very nice to rub their noses in it," a softer, smaller voice said faintly in the background.

"Oh, shut the fuck _up_, Butters," Cartman hissed. "Enjoy!" he concluded quickly. There was a clicking noise, and Kyle felt every pair of eyes in the room zero in on him as "…Baby, One More Time" began to play over the intercom system.

Without saying anything, Kyle gracelessly gathered up his things and ran out. He didn't know if Cartman was planning on coming to class or what, but he didn't want to be there when or if it happened.

XXX

It was only during dinner that Kyle remembered his date with Kenny. His family was eating early, and it was only 6:30 or so, and Kyle was not eating with them. His mother had tried to talk to him when he came home, so he knew they were having pierogi and sauerkraut, with a huge lumpy, chalky potion of Sheila's dry-ass mashed potatoes on the side. Kyle didn't know why his mother persisted in thinking that he liked her cooking, or liked her, or wanted to have anything to do with her or her cooking or anything like that. He gracelessly told her where she could go and what she could do with herself, but she followed him upstairs anyway, lecturing or maybe pleading about his behavior. And after he slammed the door in her face and secured it with a chair under the knob, he rolled over and fell asleep. He hadn't slept well on Saturday or Sunday night, and he hadn't been eating, either.

Truthfully, he did feel a little bad about being late to meet Kenny, but he was sure his impoverished friend wouldn't mind. Kenny didn't do homework, didn't take ballet lessons, didn't volunteer at any soup kitchens. (Probably because he was more likely to be a patron of a soup kitchen, Kyle figured.) He might be a little peeved, but he'd get over it; Kenny had nothing more important to do than wait for Kyle to show up.

Mrs. McCormick's acid-red hair was cartoonish, and Kyle had always seen some faint violet in there. It never really occurred to him that the shade of this wiry, graceless woman's hair was inexplicably similar to that of his stately, if intolerable, mother. This woman had a misplaced Southern twang, which always bothered Kyle, because this was Colorado, not Texas, and he liked to think that Colorado was at least far enough north for that to be misplaced. So he shuddered a little as he stood in the doorway freezing, and Mrs. McCormick screamed out her son's name, trying to get him to come to the door.

"He should be here," she said apologetically. "His little French friend was over earlier, and I saw him leave and Kenny wasn't with him." Kyle just gave her a shrug; Kenny had _better_ be there, and yet he didn't know why this woman didn't keep better track of her own son. "You can go on and just try and find him for yourself," she said finally, shutting the door behind Kyle.

Kenny's house was a pit, of course, a single-storey hovel on the wrong side of the tracks, literally. Cartman might call this _the ghetto_, but to Kyle's mind, you had to be at least close enough to the ghetto yourself to be able to recognize it as such. To him, it was just Kenny's house, a place he stayed away from. Right now, however, it felt so much better than his own house, which harbored his shit-sucking family which didn't give a damn about him.

A poster of a scantily-clad woman in a cowboy hat hung on Kenny's door, and Kyle sighed on seeing that someone had singed her eyes out, perhaps with a cigarette, although the holes were large enough to suggest that perhaps this had been done repeatedly, or perhaps only once, with a cigar. He banged on the door once, and then twice, and he sighed. "Kenny?" he called out. There was silence; no one answered. The McCormick house had at least one person in it, and it still felt deserted and uninhabited. "I'm sorry I'm late," Kyle lied through the door. "Just let me in already."

Sighing, he shrugged and gave up, twisting the knob. Perhaps it wasn't locked — and it wasn't. Kyle stepped inside the room, took a look at the chair lying flat on the ground, and then up at Kenny McCormick's dangling feet. He wasn't wearing any pants, not even underwear, and as Kyle's gaze trailed up the body, over the partially developed erection and faint tracings of seminal fluid on the thighs, he noticed horrible things — scars, burn marks, little wounds matching the size and shape of the ones in the poster on the door.

Kyle could not even bear to look at Kenny's face. He took this all in and after a second, maybe two, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he fainted.


	8. Chapter 8

Kyle noticed the horrible pain in his neck before he even opened his eyes. Being who he was, he rarely had a chance to fall asleep directly on someone's floor, or in this kind of uncomfortable position. (Sharing a bed with Craig, Kyle knew, was a whole different kind of uncomfortable.)

When he did open his eyes, though, he saw two blue dots glaring down at him, and it took him a moment to realize what was going on before he jumped up with a scream, clumsily thrusting himself into a wooden crate full of crumbling Playboys.

"Kyle, dear," Kenny's sarcastic voice cooed. "You do look like you've seen a ghost."

"I may as well have!" Kyle shrieked. "Jesus Christ!"

"Oh, what's wrong?" Kenny asked, inching toward Kyle. "Did someone's cell phone go off and wake you up at 7 a.m.?" Confused, Kyle shook his head slowly. "Yes, that's right. That would be _my_ morning." Kyle gradually fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the message telling him he'd missed a call. "Yes," Kenny sighed. "What a wholly pleasant morning."

"Jesus Christ," Kyle repeated, dropping the phone. "You—"

"Me?" Kenny asked. "What do you mean?"

"You! There!" Kyle pointed to the chair that remained flat on its side in the middle of the room. "Jesus!"

"Oh, yes." There was a sort of self-satisfaction in his voice, and it was making Kyle uncomfortable. "That was a good one."

"Oh my _god_," Kyle sighed. "How could you?"

"Hmmm. What's this? Why all the concern? I mean, I'm here _now_, aren't I?"

"It's so violent," Kyle squeaked.

"I find it rather peaceful."

"Your stomach is covered in _cigarette burns_!"

"_I'm here now, aren't I?_" Kenny said forcefully. Kyle shuddered; he'd never heard his voice so eerily cold before.

"You said to come over," Kyle pleaded, although for what, he was unsure.

"I said to come over _directly_ after school, and you didn't, and you walked in on something you shouldn't have seen."

"You couldn't have waited?" Kyle gasped.

"No, Kyle," Kenny snapped. "The world doesn't always manage to fucking stop and wait for you to get with the fucking program."

Kyle felt like he wanted to say something. He knew he was being insulted, and what was more, Kenny was angry — and Kenny was _never_ angry. "Are you … okay?" he managed, although his words sounded uneasy and tentative.

"I'm indestructible."

"But your—"

"I'm fine," Kenny droned. He stood, and this was all it took for Kyle to realize that Kenny was wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of graying white briefs. "Like what you see?" Kenny asked insidiously. He gave a weird little smile.

"Maybe a little," Kyle admitted. He reached forward toward the waistband on Kenny's underwear, but Kenny sighed and took a step backward, leaving Kyle to nearly face-plant.

"Oh, no you don't," he cautioned. "I'm not gonna be your Craig rebound." Seeing Kyle's face go completely pink, Kenny grabbed his wrists and pulled him to his feet. "You're pathetic," he said cheerily.

"I don't understand what is wrong," Kyle panted. "Why don't you just tell me?"

"Your sudden concern is misplaced, if refreshing," Kenny admitted. He bent over and picked up his single pair of pants from the floor. "We're gonna be late for school anyway. You want to suck me, it's going to cost you. I want a new pair of pants."

"Who said I wanted to suck you?" Kyle asked. "And shouldn't you pay _me_?"

"Pay you?" Kenny snorted, and stepped into his jeans. "Kyle, I've _had _you, and you're not worth any money."

"Really?" Kyle asked, sounding genuinely bereft. "Craig said I was—"

"Look, I don't want to know what Craig said." Kenny began to gather up some school things to shove into a bag, but he saw Kyle standing alone and forlorn. He stopped. He sighed. "I'm sorry, okay?" Kyle didn't respond. He just looked at his shoes. "All right, dude, look. I was drunk, it was a couple of years ago … I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Oh, gee," Kyle sighed. "That's … that really makes me feel better about it."

"All right." Kenny crossed his arms. "I didn't mean to upset you, okay? Breaking up is hard, and so on, and … I'm sorry. Just … let's … let's just go to school, okay?"

"Fine," Kyle said sharply. Kenny bent over to get a shirt off the ground, and he lifted it over his head, pulling it on.

"We can take my brother's car, if you want," Kenny suggested. "He doesn't need it, he's still on probation, and—" He pulled his head through the orange T-shirt to see that Kyle was no longer in his room. "Kyle?" he called, sticking his head out of his room. "Oh, shit."

He raced down the hall, into the living room, where his mother was sitting on the couch, playing solitaire. He stopped when he saw her look at him, although he wondered what she was doing up so early. "Kenny, what are you doing?" she asked, laying a hand down on the crates that served as their coffee table.

"Did Kyle just run through here?"

"Who, your little friend?"

"Yeah, Kyle."

"Yeah, he went out the door a minute ago. Why, you do something to piss him off?"

"Probably," Kenny said lamely.

"Shouldn't you be going to school?"

"I'm going."

"I don't want two drop-out sons _and_ a failure of a husband," she said bitterly.

"Oh, no," Kenny agreed. "I'm going to school, Mama. I'm taking Kevin's car."

"Okay," she agreed. "He don't need it."

"Thanks."

"Do good, baby," she said miserably, picking up her hand of cards and looking at it. "You go after that boy, if that's what you want."

"No," Kenny said carefully. "I don't know. I think I'm done with him."

"Oh, okay." She picked a card from her hand and slapped it on top of a pile. "Have fun."

"Oh, sure," Kenny said with a laugh. "School always is."

XXX

For the first time since he got his car, Kyle walked to school. It was about a mile, and he was late. He didn't care — for the first time since he was a _boy_, he didn't care about school. His family hated him, he had no friends, and it just seemed like everything was beginning to come crashing down around him. His backpack was still at his house, and it did occur to him as a fourth and fifth car whizzed by as he trudged along the shoulder of the road that perhaps going to school was pointless. But as little as he cared, it was an automatic behavior, something mechanical — he was programmed to wake up, go to school, do well, and go home. But maybe by the end of the day he wouldn't care anymore. He was actually quite surprised at how little he was beginning to care about most things.

The day dragged on forever. He was half expecting someone to ask if he was okay, for some teacher to pull him aside after class and grill him about his innermost feelings. As much as the idea of some busybody getting too personal offended him, he was desperately hoping that someone, anyone, would talk to him. When no one did, he was forced to face a grim realization: He was isolated, and he always had been. He was in calculus — the rest of his friends took trig. He took AP classes — no one else did. The only class he had with anyone he even remotely cared about was Latin. And while he generally loathed the idea of having to see Cartman at all, as the day dragged toward lunch, Kyle began to hold out hope that maybe Cartman would deign to hassle him in class. If nothing else, it would feel sort of normal.

He felt less hungry than usual, so he skipped lunch altogether. He had another realization — he never went to lunch to eat; only to socialize. But he was avoiding everyone — he certainly wasn't going to sit with Craig, and he was avoiding Kenny, now, too, so the other table was out. It occurred to him that there were other tables — for one thing, the school did have three other grades. And of course, there were always the girls. Kyle didn't know what girls talked about at lunch, and he didn't care. After realizing that he'd been standing in the hallway alone mumbling to himself about tables in the lunchroom for three minutes, he turned around and headed to the library, where he took a seat at the table in one of the empty study rooms in the back. He put his head down in his arms. Although he couldn't sleep, he knew he'd benefit just from closing his eyes for a while.

Kyle raised his head when he heard someone speaking to him. "Excuse me," a girl's voice pressed in an agitating tone. It was so out-of-place, and yet he knew it was familiar, that he should know it…

"Hey," the little voice nagged again. "Kyle? Are you okay?" He knew this voice. It belonged to Stan's first crush. Kyle's heart sank a little, but he looked up at her anyhow.

"What do you want, Wendy?"

Wendy's eyes darted around suspiciously. "Can I sit down?"

Kyle wanted to say no. "It's a free country," was the best he could manage. He hoped that, coupled with his absolute snottiest tone, it would do the trick. It didn't. She sat down.

"I heard about you and Craig," she said softly. With some trepidation, she gently touched his upper arm. He yanked it away with a sudden seize. Who was she to bust into his study room when he was having a perfectly fine time feeling miserable? "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," she continued. He could hear in her voice that she really didn't want to upset him. "He's pretty bummed about it. I think he really liked you."

"Thanks!" Kyle barked out in his loudest tone, definitely not a library voice. Sheepishly, he lowered his volume after catching the _Quiet_ sign looming over the doorframe ominously. "Who told you that?" he hissed in his loudest not-loud tone.

"Bebe," Wendy said matter-of-factly. Kyle pursed his lips, completely unsurprised, and then she added, "Well, and Craig."

"Fabulous." He rolled his eyes. "I so love being gossiped about."

"He's quite upset," Wendy tried.

Kyle had no patience for this. "Well!" he huffed. "You tell that bastard that he has no right being upset just because he left me! If he's so damn upset why doesn't he just come fucking over here and, um…" Kyle trailed off. Wendy continued to look at him with concerned eyes. "He is such a prick!" he finally concluded.

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Oh, that's mature."

"Just tell me what the fuck you're doing here," Kyle demanded. He was getting pretty sick of this.

"Because," Wendy said slowly. "I think we have a common enemy, here."

"I'll say," Kyle agreed. "You _should_ get over Cartman. He's only going to drag you down."

Wendy sighed, and then she frowned. "You misunderstand me. I have no problems with Eric," she said, waving her hands. "I'm not angry at him."

At this, Kyle snorted derisively, and made a great show of rolling his eyes as apparently as possible. "Oh, sure," he drawled. "Of _course_ you're not."

"I'm not," Wendy said firmly.

"Oh, of course. Of course you wouldn't be pissed that boy you're sleeping with and probably in love with is dicking you over."

"Really," Wendy stressed. "Really, really, really."

Kyle snorted again. "Sure, I believe that. And why the hell wouldn't you be?"

"Because, I can't be angry at Eric for being a douche." She paused. "It would be like hating a wolf for attacking a sheep. It's in its nature. It can't stop itself."

"Oh, sure." Kyle nodded, all the while completely doubting everything she was saying.

"And of course, I think I love him."

Kyle gagged on this; it was the second time in as many months that he'd heard someone confess his or her love for Eric Cartman — a concept that up to this point in his life, he'd considered something of an impossibility. Butters' infatuation could be written off in any number of ways; he was a weak, pathetic little boy, drawn in by Cartman's pungent masculinity and strong personality. But Wendy — Kyle didn't really _know_ her, not in the way he felt he knew Stan or even Cartman himself. Despite this, though, he felt that he knew enough, or at least what he needed to know. She wasn't crazy, she wasn't stupid, and she seemed to know what she wanted. The realization that someone something less than insane or pathetic wanted to be with Eric Theodore Cartman made time stop for Kyle Broflovski, and he began to choke on something, although it had to be air, because he wasn't eating or drinking anything.

"Are you all right?" Wendy asked, hand hovering over his, hesitant to offer real comfort.

"Fine," he managed to squeeze out.

"He gives really fucking amazing head," Wendy said abruptly.

Kyle immediately stopped choking to cough out an abject, "_Excuse me_?"

"I mean, what do I have to tell you to get you to believe that I don't want to go after Eric? I want him _back_."

"Well," Kyle sniffed, trying vainly to regain some dignity in this ridiculous exchange. "I, um … I guess it makes sense that the thing he's good at is, like … you know, eating."

Wendy cracked a smile, and even Kyle had to think that she was rather captivating, if not his personal cup of tea. "That's funny," she remarked through a giggle, tucking some hair behind her ear. Her nose was too small and too pointed; she was wearing pink lipstick, and to Kyle it just looked greasy. Kyle had often felt his life was full of sadness and let-down, heartbreaks and disappointments and heaving sighs, but looking at Wendy's pink drop earrings made him sadder than ever, for two reasons. She was what he was going to have to compete with in life, being smart and pretty and charismatic and most importantly, _normal_. On the other hand, this whole thing reinforced for him the hard truth that she was using her cunning to go after _Cartman_, and although thinking about Cartman generally made Kyle angry or simply just nauseated, thinking about Wendy and Cartman just made him sad. It was unfair that someone should want him that much — let alone two people, and here Kyle barely had anyone. He knew they would end up back together, too, and he would be left all alone again, and that would be that. Triumph of the normal, and he was anything but, with his enormous ass and kinky hair and affinity for Wendy's leftovers.

"Kyle," she said warmly, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped back to attention, shaking his head.

"What?" he snapped.

"I don't want to go after Eric. Pissing him off doesn't help anyone."

"Well." He crossed his arms and sniffed again, hoping she got the message that he had no respect for _that_ viewpoint. "Who do you want to go after, then?"

"Well, I think it's best to go after the person consuming his attention, don't you think?"

Kyle gaped at her. "You want to go after _Butters_? He's completely benign."

"_No_, I do not want to go after _Butters_," she hissed. "Although I definitely hate him."

"How can you hate Butters?" He really didn't know how you _could_ hate Butters. There was nothing vaguely hate-worthy about him. "He would have to pretty much be _something_ to inspire any kind of ire, wouldn't he?"

"I'm talking about that friend of yours. You know, Frank?"

"You mean … Frank Granger?"

"Yeah, he's the one."

"He's not my friend!" Kyle bellowed in his tardy indignity. "He fucking sucks! He's the douche who got me into this mess in the first place!"

"Maybe you should calm down…"

"Calm down? Calm down?" Kyle got up and began to pace back and forth, pulling at his hair as he ranted. "How could you even say that to me, _calm down_? Do you even know what the fuck is going on in my life?"

"Well, kind of, but…"

"You think you have problems, with your, 'Oh, Eric Cartman gives great head.' Do you know that I've given head to pretty much every boy in our grade _except_ for Cartman, and the first time I ever got any back was like two months ago?"

"Well, no…" Wendy stammered hesitantly." I didn't know that."

"No, you fucking wouldn't, because you're too busy being a goddamn girl to notice anything that's happening with _me_. I've been in love with someone since like forever, and he has no idea, and on top of that he totally fucking hates me, and Kenny like tried to rape me this morning, and all of this is part of my normal life except that I just fucking got _dumped_ by the only person who ever gave a modicum of a flying fuck about me, and you think Cartman is so fucking great, well, he's helping Frank fucking Granger do the same bigoted, narrow-minded things he's always trying to do, and to top all this shit off my family fucking hates me and treats me like shit, and so does everyone else, but it's their goddamn fucking fault I'm in this position to begin with, because if my mother weren't a crazy fucking psycho whore, I'd pretty much have none of these problems! Do you understand?"

Kyle stopped pacing, and he planted his hands on the table and leaned into Wendy. He gave her what he hoped was his most insidiously manipulative look of pain, and he was expecting her to say something generically comforting like, 'Oh, that sounds awful.' He would also not have been surprised if she had asked who he was in love with, or actually just come out and admitted that she knew it was Stan, everyone knew it was Stan, and there was no getting around that. Instead, she did something he found unexpected and a little off-putting.

"What are you doing?" he asked, curiosity and disgust mingling in his tone.

"I'm giving you a hug." She spoke into the crook of his neck; her grasp was loose and tentative. She drew away, giving him a small, questioning glance. "What's wrong?" Kyle shrugged his shoulders, and backed away from her.

"I don't like this," he mumbled.

"You're being really weird."

"No, I'm not."

"Kyle," she sighed. "Have you ever considered being friends with some girls?"

"What? No!"

"Well, why not?"

"I … I don't know."

Wendy swallowed, and clasped her hands. "I think we could be friends," she said. "We have a common enemy."

"Having a common enemy doesn't make us friends!" Kyle protested. "Besides." He cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I have it in me to be 'friends' with someone who's sleeping with Cartman."

"Look, it's very simple. We obviously need help, so why don't we just help each other?" Kyle opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "You don't want to be my friend? Think of it as an alliance."

"Wendy, I'm not—"

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," Kyle lied.

"All right, that's good. You think I don't care about some homophobic douchebag? I care. Some of my best friends are gay."

Kyle snorted. "Well, of _course_ you care about _some_ homophobic douchebag, hence all the plotting for Cartman's attention—"

"He's not homophobic," Wendy interrupted. "I mean, I get how you might see it that way, but … no." Kyle looked doubtful, so she added: "Trust me. If Eric were a homophobe, do you think he'd be running around school in those fucking tight jeans pretending to be dating Butters?"

"Honestly?" Kyle asked. "I put nothing beyond him at this point."

"That is pretty smart." She paused. "But no, really. Here's how I see it: I'll help you take care of Granger. He'll get put in his place, he'll stop courting Eric, and Eric'll come back to me. Plus, you'll piss him off. And he hates that. Sound good?"

Kyle moaned, and slouched against the wall. "I don't know," he whined. "I really … I'm sorry I just don't trust—"

"—anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die?" Wendy filled in.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know?"

She smiled. "Oh, that? I've heard it somewhere before."

"I don't like you." Crossing his arms, Kyle sighed. "I need to think about it."

"All right," Wendy said brightly. She swallowed. "Take your time." He gave her a nasty look, and she backed out of the study room.

XXX

At lunch Kenny was silent, choosing to eat his side of macaroni and cheese without getting involved in the forced conversation between Stan and Clyde. They were talking about football; apparently, the guys from South Park who played were spending their afternoons scrimmaging out by Stark's Pond, because the regular season hadn't started, or was over, or something like that. Now, even Kenny knew that the NFL didn't start until September, but he couldn't figure out high school football at all. So as Clyde bugged Stan about the team's prospects ("We should be okay," was Stan's reply) and Tweek nervously tapped his nails on the laminated table surface in counts of three, Kenny sighed, and picked up his empty styrofoam bowl.

He was nearly out the door when Stan caught up to him, breathless, clearly having just made it out of there. "Kenny," he breathed uneasily, tugging on the thin sleeve of a hooded black sweatshirt. "I need to talk to you."

"Okay," Kenny said. He tossed his lunch trash in a nearby bin and pulled his lighter out of his pocket. "I'm going out for a smoke before French."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"You take French."

"Um, yeah." Kenny frowned. "I've been taking it—"

"I get it," Stan said rapidly, cutting him off. "I think that's sort of sweet."

"Oh, thanks," Kenny said bitterly. "I don't need you telling me what's sweet, Stan."

Stan frowned, and put his hands in his jean pockets. Kenny smiled at how baggy they were; that was Stan, never wearing pants that suited his athletic assets. What a waste. "I'm sorry," Stan muttered, lowering his head.

"For what?"

"Not sure," Stan admitted. "I just feel like such a bad friend these days." He paused, and shifted out of the way of a couple of girls who were coming into the cafeteria, and then he leaned toward Kenny and said in a small way, "I really need your help."

"Well, I'm going out," Kenny repeated. "But you can come."

"Thanks, dude."

"Ugh, don't thank me. Just, let's go. I haven't had a cigarette in four hours."

Outside, Kenny leaned against the side of the building, and lit his cigarette in the most dramatic way possible. He inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a loud groan through his nose. "Oh, yes," he sighed. "You have no idea." Stan was still standing there with his hands in his pockets, and now he was smiling awkwardly. "You … want my help?" Kenny asked slowly, fine wisps of smoke curling out past his lips as he spoke.

"Yes, please," Stan replied brightly. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"With what?"

Stan groaned, and sat down, not caring if his baggy pants got dirty in the muddy April ground, which was cold and mostly solid, but slick on the surface. With a sigh, Kenny joined him, adding another layer of grime to his only pair of pants. "I like someone," Stan said very carefully. "And I know you know who," he added preemptively when he saw Kenny's chapped lips part slightly. "And I can't say it. So _please_, don't make me. I _know_ you know. I know you do."

"Okay," Kenny agreed. "I do. So what?"

"So what?" Stan asked. "So what, is you're my friend, and friends help each other out."

"Uh uh." Kenny shook his head, and Stan watched the cigarette bob around between his lips while he did. "I'm sick of just being there for people who want to bitch, and then left hanging like a fucking slaughtered calf when it's inconvenient for you people to try and do something for me for once."

"I try to be such a good friend to you," Stan said morosely, defensiveness seeping through his solid exterior like smoke from Kenny's lips. "I think for what it's worth, I should get an A for effort."

"Look, Stan. Just because you're a little bit more attentive to me than Kyle and Cartman doesn't mean you're some kind of saint."

"Oh, my god. I really take offense to that."

"All right, fine. What kind of saint do you _want_ to be? The martyr kind? Because Chris has some crossbows, I'm sure he'd enjoy a good hunt through the forest before stringing you up on a cross."

"Dude, sick, _no_. That's _not_ what I meant."

"Then what?"

Stan was very quiet. "You can't group Kyle and that fat ass," he said. "It's not even close to the same."

"Oh really?"

"Really."

Kenny pulled up a handful of grass and squeezed it in his hand before dumping the muddy clump on the ground. "Maybe Kyle would never feed anyone their own parents—

"

"You're damn right he wouldn't!"

"—but quite _honestly_, as far as I'm concerned, they're about equally as selfish."

Stan's eyes widened and he shook his head. "How could you _say_ that?"

"I'm not sure insulting Kyle is a productive line of discussion for us."

"Oh, no. You started this."

"You're the one who followed me out here!"

"Well, _you're_ the one who thinks Kyle is selfish, and I'm still going to have heard you say _that_ no matter what comes next, so you might as well tell me!"

"All right!" Kenny threw his hands up. "The old Marsh charm works again. Well, let's see. All he cares about is himself. All he does is walk around in a complete Kyle _fog_, seeing everything as an assault on his well-being. 'Oh, gee, my life is soooo horrible, Stan doesn't love me, my mother outed me to the whole town when I was 11, my parents bought me a $20,000 _car _— and now they expect me to get it _washed_! How dare they. Oh, it's all so unfair, my younger brother wants me to drive him to a friend's house — so I _beat him up_ even though he's so much _younger_ and _littler_ than I, why can't I have an older brother who works at a liquor store and is a registered sex offender?' "

"Kenny, this is—"

" 'Why did Craig dump me?' " Kenny continued, louder. " 'All I did was tell him I'd never love him because I'm so fucking obsessed with Stan! How could he _not_ understand that what I feel for Stan is as pure and fresh as newly fallen snow and all I want to use Craig for is a distraction? Why isn't he perfectly happy being my distraction? Nobody will ever love the way _I_ do. I'd better just go back to sucking off everything that moves. That was a _better_ distraction.' " Kenny cleared his throat of the falsetto he'd been using. "Okay, I'm done now." He paused. "And that's not even counting _me_, by the way. I guess one of your oldest friends _killing_ himself is rather boring if it doesn't involve checking _you_ out in the locker room and then angsting about it all the time."

"Oh," Stan replied stupidly. "Well, I can't always help that."

"I'm surprised you notice it," Kenny said honestly.

"He's my best friend!"

"So then, you _do _know how much he likes you?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "How dumb do you think I am, Kenny? I'd have to be an amazingly bad friend to _not_ know. It's the most fucking obvious thing."

"Oh, but me dating Chris, that's not obvious?"

"Not really."

"Well, you should have _asked_!"

"You could have just told me, you know."

"Oh, what am I supposed to do? Send out a fucking press release? 'We invite you to acknowledge the fact that Kenny's dating someone. Please treat his significant other with accordant respect.' Maybe that would work."

"Come on, dude. Don't be a prick about this. How the fuck was I supposed to know you were dating Christophe?"

Kenny slumped, and sighed. "You make all these noises about friendship, and what friendship is about. But tell me this." He paused. "What does it say about _our_ friendship if you and fucking _Kyle_ can't tell that I'm dating someone? How well do you know me — how much of a shit do you give about me — if you can't perceive that I'm _in love_?"

"Please, don't take this personally, Kenny," Stan said softly. He put a consoling hand on Kenny's thigh; Kenny removed it. Stan continued: "You've said yourself, you're with _a lot_ of people."

"So?" Kenny asked, unimpressed.

"Well, so … how am I to know if you're serious about any of them?"

"Oh, I'm serious about all of them," Kenny said boldly, quite serious, in fact, in his statement.

"But don't you think…" Stan slurred his words, nervously trying to determine what kind of impact they would have on Kenny, who was stubbing out his cigarette butt in the grass. "Don't you think you're just, well…" Stan trailed off.

"Oh, out with it, already."

"...kind of a whore?" Stan squeaked out in conclusion.

At these words, Kenny's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared out. He choked back guttural, angry noises, and said very smoothly, "What makes you think I'm any more of a whore than you, Stan, with your fucking every chick in town? Or Kyle, who can't see a dick without falling on his knees and shoving it into his mouth? Tell me, do you think that makes either of you incapable of loving just one person?"

"I … I — oh, God, Kenny. You're right." Stan rubbed his nose. "I guess I'm _not_ capable of love."

"What?" Kenny asked. "No! Wrong!" He smacked Stan across the face, causing the boy with black hair to drop his hand from his nose.

"Hey!"

"You can love, Stan! And you _do_, and I know you do! I see right through both of you. You're kids, dude, you can fuck whatever you want. It doesn't make you any less capable of having emotions. And you know what?"

"No, what?"

A bittersweet half-smile spread across Kenny's face. It was nearly beatific, and Stan knew that he'd never seen his uninhibited friend express this much outward, genuine emotion before. "Being a proponent of free love doesn't make _me_ unable to feel it, either. I've sat here watching our whole class rip apart over who likes what, and it's so fucking lame, dude. So fucking lame. Just because I can't pick one or another makes me some fucking pervert. Why should I have to? I'm not going to throw away the best fucking relationship this school's ever seen just to make you people feel more normal about yourselves — hell fucking no!"

"Shit, dude," Stan gasped. "What made you so inordinately wise and perceptive?"

"Uh, gee, I don't fucking know," Kenny said mockingly. "But I bet it's got nothing to do with the fact that I've had to face my own mortality every week since I was 6. Or that I'm dating a French mercenary who gets off on gun play."

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

Kenny grinned mischievously. "It's such a fucking turn-on. You have no idea."

"Good. Let's keep it that way!"

"All right, _fine_, I'll sit here and listen to what you do with Bebe or whoever and then when it's my turn you can just be like, ew, fags. That's fucking fair."

"It's not _that_," Stan clarified. "That guy just fucking creeps me out. He's, like, skeazy as hell. And you let him what, put a gun in your mouth?"

"My mouth if I'm a _good_ boy."

"Sick!"

"See?" Kenny sighed. "That's what I mean."

"Well, what do you fucking want, dude? You want to know what I do with chicks!"

"Not just with chicks, Stan. What the fuck are you going to _do_?"

"Me?" Stan put his head in hands. "I don't fucking know. Honestly I was assuming that the situation would kind of resolve itself, without me having to do anything."

"That is so fucking lame." Kenny reached around and pulled a nearly empty carton of cigarettes out of his pocket. "You want one?" he asked, helping himself.

"No. Wait a minute." He paused. "Yes."

The lit each other's cigarettes. Stan was not a smoker in the most literal sense of the term, but like most 16-year-old boys he was not unused to tobacco, having let himself be drunkenly talked into sharing one or two in someone's backyard. He gagged a bit on his first inhalation, but Kenny helpfully slapped him on the back. "We need to formulate a plan," Kenny said slowly, licking his filter thoughtfully.

"What?" Stan asked, his voice ragged. "You're not suggesting I _do_ something." Kenny nodded. "Well, fuck that, dude! I'm not putting myself on the line like that!"

"Stan," Kenny said softly. "Don't be afraid."

"If something's going to be done here _I'm_ sure as fuck not going to do it! This isn't on me."

"All right, well. You're going to have to do something, because I can tell you quite directly, nothing is ever going to happen if you just fucking sit here waiting for it."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, the other member of your party doesn't know you made reservations."

Stan's eyes widened. "What, really?" Kenny nodded. "Oh." Pause. "How can that even be possible?"

"Don't know, don't care. Doesn't matter. What are you afraid of?"

Stan sighed and glanced down at the burning roll of paper and tobacco in his finger. He smiled gently and stuck it into the ground, imagining that he heard a little hiss or crackle — a little sign that something was being extinguished. If nothing else he yearned for poetry, for some kind of magic in this moment of uncertainty. But he also knew that as much as magic was pretend, he should really be saving this sliver of grace and delusion for a different time.

"Well," he breathed. "The same thing we all are, I guess."

Kenny exhaled a little, smoke gently seeping out of his nostrils. "You're afraid of loss, and possibly humiliation. But please, take it from me, as someone who has nothing to lose and no sense of shame: Those things are immaterial, and they're also transgressive. The world won't stop spinning if you strike out, Stan."

"Oh, my god," Stan gasped. "Why are you saying these things? It doesn't even sound like you!"

"Anything to help a friend get laid," Kenny said, a kind of warm friendliness in his stubbly cheeks.

"So," Stan said cautiously. "You'll help me with a plan."

"Yes, yes." Kenny rubbed his hands together furiously, the end of his cigarette dangling out of his mouth. His eyes were wide and clear. "Let's plot together. But I mean it, Stan." He paused remove the filter of his cigarette from his lips, stubbing it into the concrete building they sat against. He coughed and brushed his dirty hands against his legs. "I want pictures."

XXX

After lunch, Kyle was in a much better mood. For some reason, channeling his frustrations into being angry at Wendy for being such a presumptive bitch was somehow incredibly … well, satisfying. How dare she essentially come onto him like that? Oh, how he longed to see Cartman crushed, defeated, agonized with humiliation. And yet, he was beyond needing Wendy's help for that. He was thinking these things during the tail end of his moping in the library, and on the way to his locker. While he was digging around for some kind of material he could sheepishly bring to Latin class — because he wasn't in possession of his notes or his flashcards or even his copy of the_ Aeneid _— he thought he saw Stan and Kenny rushing somewhere together. He tried to think about it. He wanted to think about Stan, with his attractively unkempt hair. But his mind kept turning back to Wendy. How dare she? He kept repeating this to himself, mantra-like. This was, of course, until he was sitting in his usual desk in Latin class, sans books or backpack.

Then Cartman came in, and squeezed his skinny jeans-clad ass into a desk. Across the classroom, Cartman gave him a seductive little wave and mouthed something, although Kyle couldn't tell what. Glaring back, Kyle began thinking about Cartman. If only he knew his un-girlfriend was begging him to help plot the behemoth's downfall. As soon as he'd had this thought, he latched into it.

All through Latin class, he rattled off half-baked, textbook-less answers. He had never found Dido and Aeneas all that fascinating — until today. "But I don't understand how you can leave a person you love," he said conclusively, shaking his head in conclusion at one of his stupid responses.

"But, Broflovski," his teacher sighed. "We're not … trying to get at Aeneas' emotions here. His overall goal was a divine mission. Think about the gods, Broflovski. Some things are bigger than we are, or love is."

"How can you think that?" Kyle replied. "Nothing is more important than love."

"Of course." The Latin teacher tapped his desk thoughtfully. "To _you_, because you're a 21st-century American boy—"

Kyle was sure he saw Cartman mouth the word 'fag' across the room, which caused him to scowl.

"—but if you were a Roman, I think your reading would be a bit different." The teacher paused. "That is, if you even did your reading."

"I read all about Dido. And … and, well, I … I just think she got screwed over. I mean, she loved Aeneas! He _seduced_ her! How is that fair? I just think—"

But whatever Kyle just thought, he didn't get to say it, because Cartman's hand slammed on his desk in interruption. "It's got nothing to do with fairness!" he cried out, startling the boy sitting to his left, who visibly jumped. "Bitches gotta get over this shit. You get dumped, you get dumped. In case you forgot, _Kyle_, Rome's more important that some PMSing ho's _feelings_. I don't know about you guys, but some of us have stuff going on. She's a tragedy of conquest." Cartman sniffed. "So you can sit there crying about it, or you can stop being a pussy fa—I mean, I'm sorry, I just can't sit here and listen to Kyle defend that dramatic little bitch anymore. Bitches gotta realize Rome needs to get founded. And stuff. You know?" He cleared his throat.

"That's excellent, Mr. Cartman," the teacher stated very calmly. "But I would recommend not using the term 'bitches' on the final exam. Or ho. Or pussy." He paused. "Or PMSing."

"Right, whatever," Cartman agreed hastily.

Kyle scoffed, and looked down at his desk. He thought about how weird it was that the fake wood laminate looked so much like a real dead tree. Then he looked back up and stared at Cartman. Catching his eye, Cartman blew him a kiss, and then went back to taking notes on meter.

Well, their teacher was right — missions begged for completion. With a renewed sense of optimism, Kyle's day went on.

XXX

Kyle knew Wendy. Not that well, and not that recently, but there were some things you just picked up about people you'd been in school with since a young age. That was why she'd been able to find him in the library before, and it was why Kyle was now able to track her down. Unremarkably, she was also in the library, a place where Kyle was loathe to go after school, because he liked to go home. But as long as he was no longer following his patterns, he might as well do this.

She was surprised to see him.

"I just have to ask you a question," he explained, shuffling his feet. "I mean, about Cartman."

"All right," she agreed, tucking her pen behind her ear. "If I can answer it, I will."

"All right."

"Do you want to sit down?" she asked, indicating the chair across from her at the table with her index finger.

"What? Oh, um, sure."

She shut the text book she'd been studying from. "So," she said cautiously. "What do you want to know?"

"I need to know what the fuck Cartman is doing with Frank Granger," he said without hesitation. "I mean, what the _fuck_ is he getting out of it? Do you have _any_ idea? Because I don't fucking know."

Wendy gave a little laugh. "That's easy," she said, shaking her head. "What _doesn't_ he get out of it? Someone is devoting all of his attention to Eric. He's buying him food, eating up all of his bullshit with a spoon. More than anything, you know, he likes getting a reaction. He just likes people's energies to be focused on him. So, you know, just look at how pissed off he's made you, and me. Look at how wound up he's got _Butters _— you know, not that I care, I'm just _saying_." She paused. "That's all," she added quietly.

"That's the most retarded thing I've ever heard! You think you know him better than anyone, and you can't think of a _reason_ he's fucking around with another asshole?"

Wendy narrowed her eyes uncharacteristically. "I just told you, assholes _feed_ off of one another. Besides. If you think there is any use to determining patterns in his behavior, think again. He's just … ugh, I find it _very_ frustrating."

"But apparently he gives good head, so let's not take that into consideration."

"Excuse me!" Wendy snapped. "How would you like it if we sat here and evaluated your reasons for—"

The ring of Kyle's phone interrupted her.

"Excuse me." Drearily, he glanced at the screen on his phone. "Fuck," he seethed, catching sight of his mother's name. He wanted to ignore it, but something told him he should pick it up anyhow.

"Hello?" was his cautious greeting.

"Kyle!" He had been hoping she would be subdued, Sheila's alarmed shrieking was never anything but. "Where the hell have you been? This isn't like you! Where _are_ you?"

She certainly wasn't happy. Kyle swallowed. "School," he answered slowly.

"Oh, like I believe that!"

"No, _really_. I'm in the library." He paused. "With Wendy Testaburger."

Seemingly, she wasn't expecting that, so her words caught for a moment. "Well…" she stuttered, tripping over her words. "Well, that's … that's certainly no excuse! Where the _hell_ were you last night?"

"Kenny's house?"

"Are you asking me, or telling me?

"Telling?"

"I want you to come home right now."

Kyle sighed. "Sure."

"Half an hour, Kyle," Sheila demanded. "I want to see you home in half an hour."

"Whatever you—" he began, but she'd audibly shut her phone.

"So." Wendy coughed awkwardly, coquettishly. "You and Kenny?"

Kyle's face reddened — out of anger, not embarrassment. "No," he growled. "Just … just _no_."

"Oh, okay," she said agreeably. "I just heard you were there last night…"

"Passed out," he informed her. "Very much unable to copulate, provided I'm a human being, and not a necrophiliac."

"Well, what does _that_ have to do with it?"

Rolling his eyes, Kyle sighed. "You wouldn't understand. Kenny, he's … well. He's, like…" He saw Wendy staring at him in anticipation, and this pissed him off. How dare she expect anything from him, answers or otherwise? "Don't concern yourself with Kenny," he snapped. "If you think I don't understand _Cartman_, you sure as hell don't understand _Kenny_, because if I can tell you one thing about him, it's that _I_ fucking can't. So now, I have to go. My mother is going to _ream_ me."

But instead of walking away, he looked at her oddly. "What?" she asked. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh." Kyle looked around. "Do you think you can give me a ride home from school?"

Wendy shrugged. "I guess so. What happened to your filthy white car?"

"I didn't drive it today," Kyle under-explained.

She began shoving things into her backpack. "Don't Jews tend to boycott German cars?"

"Why would we do that?" Kyle asked. Wendy rolled her eyes. "Oh, right. Well, like everyone, Jews are hypocrites. My parents' taste in cars has always been trendy. Apparently chic people in cities are driving Volkswagens, _don't ask me why._"

She stood and slipped on her jacket. "Well, you won't be impressed with my 13-year-old Subaru, I assume."

"If it drives, it's fine."

"It's slow," she warned him. "It drives like shit here. Old tires, not great on wet pavement."

"It's fine," Kyle sighed, looking behind them as they walked out of the library. "More time to discuss our plan."

When they got to the doors, she paused for a second, waiting for Kyle to open them for her. He didn't, though, so she held one them open for him, and without thanking her, he strode through it. For a moment she got the ingenious idea to let the door go and to let it smack him in the ass — she wondered if he would even feel it. But she decided not to, and realized that she was grinning.

XXX

In general, Stan played football after school.

Stan knew he wasn't good at football. He was fine, sure, good enough for the pathetic little regional league's county team. This wasn't going to be his ticket into college, or his future, and he knew it. He didn't know what _was_ going to turn out to be his calling, but if he was sure of anything, he was sure that it wasn't football. The thing with football was, he just liked playing it. It wasn't something he had to _think_ about. He didn't have to care about any of the other guys who played it with him, and that included Eric Cartman. All he had to do was squat and throw and run, and then repeat that series of actions until he won or lost.

This kind of simplicity was rare in life. He didn't consider himself profound, but he was deeply aware of this.

Usually, Cartman gave him rides to football. Stan did not spend an outsize amount of time dwelling on Cartman, but he was perfectly well aware that despite whatever other shortcomings, Cartman was a very, very good football player. Stan also knew that tackling wasn't exactly rocket science, and that it wasn't as if he'd studied this not-so-subtle art; he just followed Stan to try-outs (which were anything but, considering the no-cut policy, but someone decided to call them that anyway) and was duly given an applied use for his bulk. At the time, Stan really did wish Kyle could have been there, to have seen the amazed — frankly, dumbfounded — look on Cartman's face when he discovered he was actually harboring a natural talent. It was like he couldn't believe, was frankly shocked, and then, in his best, most shit-eating Eric Cartman voice, sort of started blathering, "Yes, well, I've always known I'd be good at _this_," like he had any fucking idea there was some use for all that fat and muscle and gristle strapped to his torso.

Today, when Cartman called Stan to ask where the fuck he was, Stan took one glance at his phone and groaned.

"Who's that?" Kenny asked, fiddling with the radio. The way Kenny drove with only one hand usually flipped Stan out, but for some reason, today all he cared about was that Kenny wasn't driving with _no_ hands. Could a person drive handlessly? Stan sighed, and tossed his phone into his backpack.

"No one," he said innocently. Kenny rolled his eyes, all while cutting off a pickup truck. "I mean, it was Cartman, he's _practically_ no one. I sort of, kind of ... blew him off without telling him."

"That's so sad." With a glance, Kenny surveyed the cup holders for a pack of cigarettes. "Well, what are you going to do, it's not like he's never done anything rude before. Do you have any smokes?"

"What?" Stan shrugged. "No, I don't tend to carry those."

Kenny grunted in dismay. "Let me give you some advice." Stan rolled his eyes. Kenny's advice was beginning to grate on him, and he was already nervous. "When you talk to him, be very appealing, you know, very … reverent. He likes that sort of thing, doesn't he? And when you have problems with people, but you _want_ something from them, the last thing you need to be is condescending."

"I'm not condescending."

"Maybe not _on purpose_."

"All right, fine, I can be _condescending_. Don't I deserve to be? Look at all the shit I have to deal with. Look at all the shit he's put me through!"

"Yeah," Kenny sighed, breaking in front of Stan's house. "But you need him now, and he can be petty, _really_ petty. I mean, even I know _that_. I've known the guy for _practically_ as long as you have."

Stan gathered up his backpack, and cracked the door open. The air outside was sort of moist, sort of springy. "I hope this works, I really do."

"I hope it does, too. I hate to think that I'm wasting my time, here."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Kenny," Stan sighed, popping out of his seat.

"Good luck!" Kenny called after him. Stan turned, smiled widely, and gave him the finger. Laughing, Kenny leaned over, and spotted a pack of cigarettes in the passenger-side door. Before reaching over for them, he waved at Stan — or rather, Stan's ass — as it disappeared through the front door.

XXX

If it was a weekday, and it was after 4 p.m., Stan's mother was in the kitchen. In his mind, she was always in the kitchen, although he was very cognizant of the fact that she wasn't a particularly good cook. She was, however, a firm believer in the family dinner. Stan had been hoping beyond hope that when his sister went to college, she'd give up, but she never did — she kept on dishing out mediocre casseroles and dry chicken legs to her son and husband, the former usually sitting there silently, glowering, making eye contact with no one. His mother liked to try to make conversation with him, and it was usually less than successful. "How was football today?" she would ask, and he would shrug.

"Did you tackle anyone?" his father would chime in.

"Quarterbacks don't _tackle_," Stan would growl. It constantly amazed him that his father, who had been watching football with great interest for years, always seemed to forget the basic rules of the game any time Stan's involvement in the sport came up. He wasn't stupid, but his intelligence nearly always evaporated where Stan was involved. Dealing with this had become intolerable years ago. Stan hated them, both of them. His mother less so, but he knew that it was all her fault, that she was the enabler who created this situation.

That was how their meals usually went. Kyle often asked him why he continued to even go through the motions of sitting down for dinner. What Kyle didn't understand was that Stan was hungry. Kyle was basically anorexic — not for any psychological reason; he just wasn't moved by food. He ate _enough_, but that was the bare minimum. Stan burned calories. He wanted dinner.

So stumbling into the kitchen, Stan was hardly surprised to find his mother there, chopping onions, the radio tuned to adult contemporary in the background. She sliced them very evenly, which Stan _was_ surprised by, but he shouldn't have been, because perfect cubes of onion were a recurring part of his childhood. She was very involved in this thing she'd done a million times before. He sniffed, trying to find out what she was making. He thought he smelled cumin. He was slightly ashamed that he knew the scent of cumin. Scent identification wasn't really a guy-thing. Maybe she was making chili? It wasn't going to be great no matter what it was. He cleared his throat.

"Oh," she said, looking up from the onions. The kitchen counter was immaculate, and she was chopping directly on top of it without a cutting board. She put her knife to the side, but not before running a dishrag over it. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here." Stan said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which in his defense, it was true and all.

"That's not what I meant." Sharon neatly folded the dishrag she'd just used to clean the onion juice off her knife. "Shouldn't you be at football?"

Stan glared at her uneasily. Why did she have to ask questions? "Football doesn't own me," he said defensively. "I don't _have_ to go."

"But the team—"

He interrupted her. "Cut the crap, Sharon. I'm not here to talk about football. Where is he?"

Sharon put her hands on her hips. "Where is _who_? Where is your father? I don't know, he's probably in the basement, he's the only _he_ I know of around here who's not you."

"Yeah, him," Stan confirmed. "He's downstairs, you say?"

"Last time I checked…" She tilted her head toward a basket of unfolded laundry sitting on the kitchen table. Stan didn't move. She sighed. "Is there … something I can help you with?"

"No," he said slowly, like he was still thinking things out. "That's okay."

She gave him an odd look, and he shrugged. She heaved her shoulders and shook her head and grabbed the knife again. If only for a moment, he wondered if she ever thought about knife-throwing, or self-mutilation. He sometimes wanted to know if parents had those thoughts. Then he remembered what he was doing, and left. The radio station and the resumption of the blade on the countertop provided an excellent exit soundtrack.

So it was spring now, but the basement was always pretty cold. In general, you kept your heat on in South Park seven months out of the year, from October to the start of May, but it wasn't quite the start of May yet. There was usually a lull on either side of the heating season when you left the system off entirely and let the house heat itself and the static temperature balance out whatever wasn't quite right. But the basement didn't get heat at all, or maybe it was underground enough for the heat to escape out the raw foundation. Stan didn't know. He didn't hang out down here.

Sure enough, a prostrate form was wrapped in a fleece blanket on the couch. Stan also didn't know why they kept a couch down here. It began when they got a new couch for the living room when he was in seventh grade, and he clearly remembered his father saying something like, "You never know when you're gonna need a couch in the basement." Stan remembered the Saturday afternoon that Gerald Broflovski and Butters' dad came over and helped him move it down the stairs. Actually, Kenny was over, and the couch fell on Kenny. He'd never thought about why the couch didn't have an enormous browning bloodstain soaked through one end, because it should, but then, thinking about the practical aspects of these situations was unpleasant for him. Stan knew when they were going to need a couch in the basement — precisely never — but his father used it, so maybe he was wrong. He knew the guy came down here for the beer his mother wouldn't let him keep in the kitchen refrigerator and also, if he ever had a particularly destructive project in mind, this was where Sharon sent him to carry it out.

All right, so he was downstairs. He poked at his father, who just mumbled something in his sleep. Stan kicked a beer bottle over; now they were all on their sides, all six or eight of them. He didn't count. There was so much alcohol in the basement that he never had any problem taking whatever he wanted and carrying it off — up to his room, over to Kyle's, to Token's to play videogames, wherever. It didn't matter. "Dad?" he asked nervously. The man didn't wake up, or at any rate, didn't get up.

"Dad!" Stan shouted louder. He felt like this might have been easier if his father hadn't been curled, fetal-style, away from him. For a moment, Stan wondered if other guys had these situations, fathers sleeping on useless basement couches after obviously doing a half-day of work and spending the afternoon on a bender.

"Randy!" he shouted.

This was effective. Stan's father began to stir, and he sat up, letting the blanket fall to reveal, pretty plainly, that he was just wearing briefs.

"Stan?" he asked in disbelief.

"Uh." Stan rolled his eyes. His hands were slack at his sides. "Yeah."

"Stan," Randy said kindly. He pushed himself off the couch, stumbled through some clanking of tipped-over beer bottles, and grabbed his son by his upper arms. "Stan!" he said joyously. If there was any reason for Stan to hate the sound of his own name, this was it. "What can I do for you, son?" Perfectly innocent words, but spoken with immediacy, like the children's hospital was on fire and all the little leukemia victims had to be evacuated.

Stan seized up, but managed to get the man's hands off of his person. "Don't … don't touch me."

"Oh, sure."

For a moment, neither of them said anything to the other one. Things were tense, but Stan swallowed, and tried to form words. His father kept looking at him curiously; it might have been the first time he'd voluntarily approached Randy in … well, he doubted it had been as long as he'd been in high school. A year, maybe? This was all very odd for him.

"I need your help with someone. I mean, something." Stan cringed. "I mean, I need your help because there's … someone." He coughed, and felt incredibly stupid.

Randy grinned. "Of course, son," he said. Stan could feel his father's joy, and it was weirding him out. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you still have that LP dubbing deck?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And, um … you still have all your old records?"

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of throwing those babies away."

"Well." Stan tried to recall Kenny's advice: Act as humble as possible. Be kind. Was that what he'd been saying? Close enough, if it wasn't. "Can you, um … show me how to use it?"

"Anything for you, Stan." Randy patted his son on the back, and it took all of Stan's self control to avoid shuddering. He shuffled off, toward the stairs, and Stan could still hear him muttering, "Anything for you."


	9. Chapter 9

Hello! Thank you for not giving up on this. I'm so sorry this has taken forever to update, but there's some good news, too: This story is super close to being finished.

In the meantime, please enjoy this installment.

* * *

Kyle thanked Wendy for the ride and got out of the car. _His_ car was where it always seemed to be — parked in the street, barely a shadow of its formerly gleaming-white self. He had to admit that his father was right about this; the car _was_ filthy. It wasn't like he gave a shit, but there it was.

He knew his mother would be waiting for him, and as he meandered up to the front door, marveling at how quickly the snow was melting away into springtime's mushy sod, he internally debated whether to attempt a getaway up to his room, or to try and face her. Perhaps he delayed for too long, though, because the front door flew open, and there she was, hands on her significant hips, looking pretty cross.

"There you are!" Sheila shouted at her son. "Get your behind in the house _now_."

Kyle opened his mouth to answer, but he decided he didn't feel like it, and did what she said. He looked around nervously as she shut the door behind him. She wasn't saying too much of anything, which made him feel that maybe now that he was home he was off the hook, so he tried to get up the stairs, and she said, "Just where do you think you're going?"

"Um." Kyle kicked the wall behind him with the heel of his shoe. "Upstairs."

"No, you're not. Your father's waiting in the kitchen. We're all going to have a nice talk."

Remembering their last talk, Kyle shook his head reluctantly. "I have a lot of homework." He tried to be clear, but it was just coming out as a mumble. "Some projects and things."

"What homework?" she asked. "You don't even have your backpack." He threw his hands up. What did she want from him? Luckily, Sheila elucidated this: "Kitchen, Kyle. _Now_."

In the kitchen, Ike and Gerald were working on a sheet of fifth-grade math problems together. Kyle remembered being in advanced math in fifth grade. They did probabilities. He'd hated it. His father said hello, and Kyle just shrugged back at him. Ike looked up, and grinned, and said, "You are in _so_ much trouble."

"Okay," Gerald said with a pronounced sigh. "Why don't you go finish this in your room and I'll check on you later?"

"I'd rather stay and watch," Ike said cheerily.

"Go," Sheila commanded.

"Oooh, okay." Ike got up and made sure to grab his worksheet. On the way out of the room, he made a point of shoving against his brother. Normally Kyle would have taken this as a cue to smack him, but the way things were going, this seemed like a pretty poor idea, so instead he just sat down at the table.

"All right, Kyle," his father began. "We're not really _mad_ at you."

"Speak for yourself," his mother countered.

"Well, okay." Gerald corrected himself: "What I _mean_, is, we understand that your life is very stressful right now, and that some things haven't gone the way you wanted them to lately."

"Wow." Kyle gave a sarcastic clap. "Yes. That's true. Well done."

"That's inappropriate!" his mother snapped at him.

"Like you have any idea what's inappropriate," Kyle replied.

"Okay, here's what we are _not_ understanding of," Gerald pressed. "It's one thing to be upset, Kyle, but it's another thing to be acting like an erratic bi—" Sheila shot his a look. "…jerk," he concluded.

"You wouldn't be calling me a bitch if you had a little sympathy."

"We have sympathy!" Sheila exclaimed. "You think I want my son to get dumped and feel bad about it? No! Of course not! We feel very bad for you. I think if you become a parent you will know how difficult it is to resist going up to the children who give your son a hard time and just smacking them."

Kyle crossed his arms. "I'll never have children."

"Well, that's a conversation for another day," Sheila said.

Gerald clasped his hands on the table. "You see, son, this is kind of getting off-topic. What you did last night, running out and not coming home and not telling us where you were, is unacceptable. And that on its own might just be upsetting, but it's part of a pattern of very erratic behavior, behavior which we think is … well, it's not the best you can be, Kyle. Do you know what we mean?"

"No."

Becoming impatient, Sheila broke in. "We're going to send you to a psychotherapist," she announced. "I don't know any other way to get you sorted out."

"What?" Kyle nearly jumped up from the table. "I'm not _crazy_! There's nothing wrong with _me_! If anyone at this table needs therapy, it's you." Kyle pointed at Sheila.

To Kyle's great surprise, neither his mother nor his father reprimanded him, or reacted, really. Very calmly, Sheila smirked, and said, "What kind of therapy I may need is irrelevant. You're still a minor, Kyle, and I'm your mother. Your father and I, we … well, we are worried about you. You've gone beyond misbehaving into … something's not right. What do you think we should do with you?"

"Me?" Kyle was completely unprepared for this question. "I … I don't really know."

"I think we can wait and see," his father said cautiously, "about the therapy. If you keep being erratic it might be best to find you someone to talk to. In the meantime, we think a suitable punishment would be taking away your car."

"My car?" Kyle gasped. "But, that's _mine_!"

"Not anymore," Sheila said sternly. "After we're done here, you bring us your keys."

"How am I going to get to school?"

"I'll drive you," Sheila offered.

"How is _Ike_ going to get to school?"

"The same way he got to school today when his older brother disappeared," Sheila said. "I drove him."

"I thought you weren't going to punish me!"

"We never said that," Gerald reminded him. "We said we understood that the situation is more complex than just you being…" He paused for a moment and thought about the right word: "…naughty."

"So go on, get us your keys, and then do your homework, if you have any." Kyle didn't budge. "_Now_."

With an intensely bitter look, and feelings of confusion and unfairness filling his mind, Kyle got up to go do what they told him to.

XXX

When Wednesday's lunch break arrived, Stan slipped out back instead of getting in line in the cafeteria. He might have been unobservant, but he knew one thing: Addicts had a low tolerance for denial. Maybe he'd have to linger out behind the school building, below the windows of the chemistry classrooms, until the end of the period — or maybe Christophe would be there already, unable to stall until after he'd eaten. Either way, he knew the guy was going to have to come out for a fix at some point. He'd been chain-smoking seemingly unremittingly since the first time Stan had met him eight — or was it nine? — years ago. He'd be here, eventually. Stan knew he would.

Unfortunately, Stan hadn't packed a lunch for himself, so he stood against the building thinking about how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, which had only been five hours ago, but it felt like years. For a moment he considered forgetting this whole idea. Who needed confrontation, anyway? What good would it do him if he keeled over from starvation? But then he shook it off, and rationalized the situation: Quitting would be the wrong thing to do. Giving up was what had gotten him into all of these various messes.

By the time Christophe arrived, Stan had slouched down to sit with his back against the building, trying not to think about what was for lunch today. Was it taco fiesta again? Maybe he was confusing the school menu with what his mother had told him she was making for dinner. He hoped he wasn't missing breakfast day, because that was his favorite. He was pondering the potential of slipping into the tail end of the lunch line to get a few packets of pancake syrup and a banana after this conversation when he looked up to find Christophe standing there, looking at him, already sucking on the end of a cigarette.

"Hello, you American breeder faggot."

"Hey … Christo—_Chris_. May I call you Chris?" Stan stumbled to his feet, using the structure behind him for support. Christophe did not blink. "What about Mole? Do you like to go by that?"

Christophe was stony as he took a drag on his Gauloise and then, ever so pointedly, exhaled in Stan's face. "You may call me your god," he huffed, stabbing the butt of the cigarette out violently on his thick boot. Then he spit on the ground.

"Okay, God." Stan rolled his eyes. "You know, you're the first person to call me a 'breeder' and a 'faggot' in the same sentence."

"I should think it happens all the time, no?" He sighed deeply, and looked heavenward. "After all, we are all faggots."

Stan cleared his throat.

"All right," Christophe grumbled. "Out with it. You come here for a reason, yes? You stupid pussy breeder faggots do not usually approach me _sans_ fists. Or cash, of course. You wish to hire my services? I'm sorry to say I won't give you a family discount. I don't care what Kenneth says, my services are not gratis for anyone."

"Um, no." Stan shifted uncomfortably. "I am, um … not really in need of your services. But it's funny you mention _Kenneth_, because I'm here to talk to you about him."

"Oh?" This piqued Christophe's interest. "Well, you hardly need my permission to fuck him. Although I must say, it is too unexpectedly gentlemanly of you to ask."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "No," Stan spat out, feeling a bit queasy now.

"Are you quite sure? Because, I recommend it. He arches his back like a reed, and screeches like a feral little bitch. He's an insatiable faggot, that one. I think I am right in assuming he would be delighted to suck your cock, he's well-practiced—"

"See," Stan managed to get out. "This is what I'm talking about."

Christophe arched an eyebrow. "You've … already had him?"

"What? No." Stan pinched his nose again. "He's … my friend. And I'm concerned … that you … don't treat him … like you should."

When Stan opened his eyes again, he was not surprised to see that Christophe had retrieved another cigarette but was nowhere close to lighting it. It just dangled from his mouth.

"Oh?" he asked, the cigarette bobbling. "And what authority are you to judge, hmmm?"

"Well, you know. He's my … you know, he's my friend."

"Oh?" Christophe quirked his eyebrows. "What is this word, friend? Who is a friend? You love him?"

"Well." Stan didn't really know what to say. "I mean, I guess so, in an abstract way. He's my friend, after all."

"I think…" Christophe paused to get a lighter out of … it seemed to Stan like it had been in his back pocket, or maybe tucked into his belt loop. "I think you are not sure what this word means."

"Well, sure I do." Stan shook his head, embarrassed that now he was beginning to sound like Butters. "I've got lots of friends, Christ—I mean, Mole. So I have to know what it means, right?" The Mole looked unconvinced. "Maybe a little?"

Smiling wryly, Christophe lit his cigarette, and Stan noticed his sunken cheeks, and how much more concave they became as he inhaled. He deftly handled the lighter and the cigarette in gloves with chopped fingertips, but even he could discern the dirty visible strips of flesh, and how they were scabby and blistered. It made Stan shudder once, and then he shuddered a second time with the realization that he thought so little of this boy, he'd never even spoken to him until it came to light that Kenny was sleeping with him. _Dating him_, Stan tried to correct himself. It made him feel a little sicker, but everything was making him feel sick these days.

"So," Christophe continued, smoke letting out of his mouth like a corrupted steam room vent — or something out of a romantic old movie? It was ridiculous. Stan hated thinking in metaphors. He wished he could kill them. "So, you come to lecture me about your 'friend.' It's a little adorable, you know, some pussy faggot thinking he can tell me what-for with my _bien-aime_. I just don't even want to have this conversation, you know? It's ridiculous to me."

"Dude." Stan swallowed. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Christophe chuckled, and he spit when he laughed, although Stan was not sure this was unintentional. "With me?"

"Yeah, with you! I'm trying to talk to you about someone we both care about, I think, and you're just … you're just talking in freaky French clichés!"

"Says the football-playing breeder everyman."

"Stop that!" Stan cried. "You don't know anything about me! Stop calling me a breeder! You don't know who I am, what I like, I—" He paused, lips trembling in frustration. "I'm worried about my friend," he concluded lamely, at a loss for another place to go about it. "But you already knew that," he added.

"I think you are annoyed that you cannot charm me," Christophe said. "You think I don't watch the people here? Kenneth is the one with the messiah complex, not you. He is the one who saves the world after you absent-mindedly destroy it. He doesn't need saving; he needs someone who _won't_ save him, who won't interfere with things like death and rebirth and isn't afraid to watch it unfold before his eyes as he's seen it before — I've seen it before, yes. You're the great romantic hero, maybe, with your _garcon roux_, and you fall into line with it and you don't question. Kenneth, he questions. You wonder why I call you 'breeder'? You play the role like it was made for you." Violently and without warning, he drew the shrunken stub of a cigarette from mouth, and threw it toward Stan, where it landed at his feet, unextinguished.

"What is a _garsun roo_?" Stan asked.

"Just because it is a cliché does not make it not true," Christophe answered, shoulders hunched. "I have math," he rasped, backing away. Stan wondered if that was some skill you learned in assassin school, not to walk away from an enemy with your back exposed.

Left with no more answers than he had before, and feeling supremely unhelpful, Stan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the thin plastic cassette he'd been keeping there all morning. "Whatever," he muttered, shaking his head. He'd never liked Christophe. Somehow, he felt validated.

XXX

Stan had wanted to catch Kyle on the way out of school. He planted himself outside the doors, backpack in arms, deciding to skip a second day of football. He'd already received a text from Cartman: _i need a ride to practice? don't tell me u stopped drivin to save gas like a hippie_. Which perfectly illustrated his problems with Cartman's half-assed texting. Why abbreviate 'you' and not 'to'? Why drop the 'g' from 'driving' but maintain proper punctuation? Why bother? Why anything? Stan sighed, hoping Kyle would show. Instead, he just found himself face-to-face with a visibly annoyed Kenny.

"Stan." Kenny paused after the name, taking time out of his speech to smoke. Stan, watching him lick the filter of the cigarette and his chapped bottom lip, wondered if it had ever not been a pain to talk to Kenny. "Hello?" Kenny asked, smoke drying his lips further. "Stan?"

"What?" Stan snapped.

"I hear you've been talking to my boyfriend."

"Oh." Stan fidgeted. "Yes." The stream of students exiting the school had almost trickled to a complete halt.

Another drag. Another exhale. "Well, why the _fuck_ did you do _that_?"

Stan shrugged. "What's it to you who I talk to?"

"You barely knew he existed last week!"

"Okay." Stan looked at Kenny. Kenny kept smoking. "I thought you'd be happy," Stan confessed, lamely. He felt awkward, and put his hands in his jeans pockets. They were too small, though, so it was more like he was grasping his hips with his fingers sheathed.

"Why would I be _happy_? Who the fuck do you think you are, my older brother? I have fucking news for you, dude, that position has been _filled_, and you hardly want to follow in his footsteps."

Stan rolled his eyes. "I don't get you. First you're pissed I don't know who you're dating. Now you're pissed I care. Make up your mind."

"I'm not pissed that you _care_! I'm pissed that however you act toward me is always filtered through this weird Stan-centric, like, screening process. I'm basically self-mutilating, but it's only a problem if it's uncomfortable _for you_. I'm involved with what is approaching a seriously long-term relationship, but you're not friends with the guy so why bother noticing? I tell you about these things and you just think, 'My god, that sounds wrong _to me_, it must be _wrong_.' " Kenny tossed his cigarette butt behind his shoulder, and took a deep breath before continuing. "I should tell you this before someone _hurts_ you, dude. You might be the most normal guy I know, but no one else in this town is. If you keep stumbling around trying to get everyone else to fit your description, you are going to be very, very disappointed."

Kenny looked to his friend for a reaction, but Stan just pursed his lips.

"I see," he said eventually.

"Dude." Kenny sighed. "Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. Let's just … let's just stay out of each other's business from now on."

"But that's what you were annoyed about in the first place! That I _wasn't_ in your business!"

Kenny shifted his weight from his fight foot to his left, and tugged on one of the drawstrings on his sweatshirt. "Maybe my standards are just too high. I don't know what I wanted, okay? I'm sorry. You just keep on doing, Stanley. Keep on doing, and please don't think about the psychosexual thrill I get from killing myself, okay? Let's stop this bullshit."

Stan cringed. "I didn't know it was _sexual_! That just makes it worse! Do you know, he told me you 'screech like a feral bitch' — that's not verbatim, I'm trying to forget — when he fucks you? What the fuck, dude. Just, what the fuck."

Kenny raised his eyebrows. "Well, _that's_ ironic, considering I'm the one giving it to _him _about 80 percent of the time."

Stan was beginning to look green. "Come on! How much talk about anal sex am I going to be subjected to today?"

"Well, that depends. What's happening with your project?"

"I … I don't know. I put it in—"

"Well, keep me updated." Kenny glanced at his naked wrist. "Oh, my. Look at the time."

Stan rolled his eyes. "You're not wearing a _watch_."

"Yet somehow I've still come to the conclusion that this conversation has rolled into overtime, and I have plans to make, not to mention English homework to do. Laters?"

Stan waved, backing away, and said, "See you soon?"

"Not tonight, you won't." Kenny raised his left hand, and ran his right index finger down his forearm.

With a shudder, Stan departed. Kyle had not shown, so he would go to practice after all.

XXX

Wendy sat at her kitchen table, attempting to concentrate on homework. She had a French exam looming, and she had a general feeling of discomfort with foreign words lacking an English counterpart. For some things, there was only weak approximation. It unsettled her.

She was also making poor study progress because her fill-in-the-blank worksheet was only meant to distract her while she waited for Kyle to show up. "I don't know when I'll get there," he'd told her on the phone. "I have to sneak out of the house. I'm totally grounded."

"Why don't you just tell your mother you're planning radical political action?"

"Look, you don't understand." Kyle sighed. "That bitch is angry at me, and the only appeasement is to make it look like I've cracked. She can't know I'm leaving the house. She'll think I still have a will of my own."

"Your family is very strange," Wendy commented. Kyle told her to go fuck herself, and she hung up the phone. A half-hour hour later and she was still trying to get her declensions straight. Finally someone banged on the plate glass of the sliding kitchen door — Kyle had arrived, out-of-breath and clad in all black. She let him in, and he pulled off a hat.

"What's with the hat?" Wendy asked. She surreptitiously reached behind herself to shut her French dictionary.

"Reconnaissance!" Kyle declared. "This is so no one can tell it's me."

"Why, because you wouldn't be caught dead otherwise in a black skullcap?"

"No, because it hides my fucking hair."

"I have news for you, Kyle. Even if you shaved your head, people would still know it was you from your ass."

"Hey!"

"Hey what? A girl would kill for an ass like that. Do you know how badly I've always wanted to fill out a pair of jeans?"

Kyle groaned, and put his hands over his ears. "I'm not hearing this."

"Don't be such a baby. That thing back there is an asset. At least _try_ to appreciate it."

"I don't want to talk about my ass!" Kyle crossed his arms.

"Okay, let's talk about that hat. It is _really_ unbecoming. "

"Shut up, Wendy!"

"I'm just trying to help."

"Well, you're _not_!"

"Don't you think we could at least _talk_ about your hair?"

"No."

"I mean, I've seen it look _really_ nice. Like that time Craig did it? Craig is really good."

"I don't want to talk about Craig!" Kyle snapped.

"Okay." Wendy looked around the kitchen table; hidden amongst her books, highlighters, and legal pads with notes scrawled in ballpoint pen was her cell phone. She grabbed it, and waved it in Kyle's face. "Eric's at football practice. He texted me. What? Why are you making that face at me? He's _good_. … At football."

"Like it takes any skill to fucking tackle someone," Kyle scoffed.

"Oh, well, why don't _you_ tell _me_? You're the one who's been on the receiving end." Wendy reached out to touch his bottom lip, still marred by a lingering sliver of scab.

He shoved her away. "Don't bring it up. Look, okay. Just, listen. Everywhere I go, someone is constantly making fun of my appearance: I have a huge ass. I can't put together an outfit. Braces weren't good enough, I should have had all of my teeth capped. I should cut all of my hair off, except it's so fugly not even cancer patients would want to wear it. Okay, I get it. I'm a big gay failure. I'm not here because I need a girlfriend to straighten me out, no pun intended. I'm not fucking Cinderella. I just want to get my meager revenge, and then I'll crawl back to the sad reality from whence I came. Makeovers aren't on the agenda."

"Okay." Wendy sniffed. "I'll stop trying to get along with you. This is just kind of what, you know, girls do."

Kyle softened. "But I'm not a _girl_, Wendy. I just don't like being fawned over. Unless it ends in a blow job. And not one from _you_."

"Noted." She grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter, and slipped her phone into it. "Come on, we can take my car."

Frowning, he followed her out to the garage.

XXX

"Frank."

The beleaguered academic looked up to find someone he truly didn't expect: Kyle Broflovski, standing above him in that old pea coat, holding a paper cup of coffee in one hand, scowling.

"Kyle." Frank snapped his notebook shut and recapped his pen with harried vigor. "Weird running into you."

"Um, not really." Kyle took off his coat and pulled up a chair. Two chairs. "I came to talk to you, actually. Hope you don't mind. … Well, actually, I don't really care either way."

"Okay. How have you been?"

"Really bad," Kyle admitted. "I feel like my life is sort of a sinkhole right now."

"That's a shame. What gives?"

"Oh, you know." Kyle sighed, heaving his shoulders and gesturing with his palms up. "Boy drama, family drama, everyone hates me. Well, maybe not everyone. Just the people who matter."

"That's too bad," Frank said. His lukewarm smile conveyed some kind of sincerity. "Have you given any thought to coming back to help me complete my research?"

Kyle grinned. "Actually, I've given a lot of thought to your research lately."

"Oh. That's … flattering."

"How's it going with Cartman?"

"Who, Eric? Eric's fine, he's a … weird kid. Helpful. But weird." Frank lowered his voice, and leaned in. "Just between you and me, I think he's got something of a racist streak."

"Oh, you don't say." Kyle took a sip of his coffee. "So did you ever at any time think to yourself that _maybe_, just _maybe_, working with Cartman was, well, not the best idea? Because I've known the guy for something like 15 years, and I _promise_ you, if you wanted to get this thing done in the most dignified way possible, reprehensible as it is, bringing in Cartman was _not_ the way to do it."

Frank rolled his eyes. "I'm not retarded. I know that guy's not totally on-the-level. I deeply suspect his mother is some kind of … negligent sex worker. Still…" Frank sighed. "If he wants to help, he wants to help. What does it matter what his motives are?"

"Frank, I have to ask you something: Just why the _fuck_ do you think Eric Cartman would ever help _you_?"

"Clearly he hates you," Frank explained. "And helping me pisses you off. His willingness to piss you off encourages him to help me. Sorry about that, but, well, it works."

"Yeah, you're right about that," Kyle conceded. "If Cartman walked by someone anally raping me, he'd be about 30 times more likely to stand there watching and beating off than chase them away. I'd say your use of Cartman is definitely problematic in some regards. But outside of _that_, you're a fucking dumb ass if you think you can just roll into this town and bribe the high school principal and sweet talk me and know everything about all of us here."

"I know enough. I know who's willing to help me."

"Cartman's not gay, you complete fucking retard!" Kyle screamed. A few customers turned to look at him, and then shrugged it off. "You're right, he hates me. And you're right, he'd do anything to piss me off. But you're a fucking idiot if you assume he has any loyalty to anyone but himself! He never has and he never will!"

"But," Frank began. Kyle smiled slightly at what he could have sworn was a little concern or fear in the man's voice. "But that kid says they're dating!"

"Who? You mean Butters?"

Frank rolled his eyes.

"Well, why would you listen to Butters of all people! Butters is _retarded_. Socially if not actually. Surely if you've met him you know that."

"He seemed … exuberant."

"Yeah, because he's too dumb to know he's being led on like a blind mule."

"Well, the blindness would explain some of his outfits."

Kyle snorted. "Yeah, possible." Kyle took another sip of coffee and swished it around his mouth while Frank stared at him. "So what I'm getting at is, so far you're getting your information from a straight guy lying about his sexual orientation to get back at _me_ because he's hated me since before either of us could _talk_, and a delusional kid who's so obsessed with Cartman he'd tell you anything Cartman asked him to say. Tell me if I'm wrong so far. I don't want to be wrong."

Frank just gaped at him.

"Anyway," Kyle continued. "There's someone here I want you to meet."

"Who?" Frank asked, annoyed.

Kyle grinned, and gestured to the girl in the purple dress who'd been hanging out by the door for the duration of the conversation. He motioned to her, and she walked over. "Frank Granger, meet Miss Wendy Tesataburger."

"Mr. Granger," Wendy said congenially. "Charmed." She extended a hand. Frank did not take it.

"Just who the fuck are _you_?"

"I was hoping you'd ask that!" Kyle cheered.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Granger," Wendy said sweetly, taking a seat. "Eric talks about you all the time."

"I don't have time for this bullshit!"

Wendy's expression turned sour. "We're lovers," she said flatly. Frank opened his mouth again to speak, but Wendy raised a finger in front of his face, and he clamped his lips together. She held up a finger and peeked into her purse, digging around for something. "I know I have it somewhere," she mumbled to herself. Frank glanced at Kyle, who continued to grin like maniac. "Here we go!" Wendy cried, pulling a few pieces of paper from her bag.

"What the fuck is this?" Frank moaned, grasping at the scraps in front of his face.

"STI test results," Wendy said brightly. "They're dated to nine months ago. As you can see, Mr. Granger, we had the same strain of Chlamydia. Eric and I did, I mean."

"Well, that's not very recent."

"Fine, it's not very recent." Wendy sighed. "But it's a hell of a lot better than just listening to that stupid little fag!"

"She means Butters," Kyle clarified, barely able to contain his glee.

"He gave you Chlamydia," Frank said, not asking.

"Actually no." Wendy lowered her voice. "I got Chlamydia from Stan Marsh, which I then gave to Eric." Realization dawned on her. "Oh shit," she said aloud.

An odd moment of silence settled over the threesome, until Frank Granger snorted. He turned to Kyle, whose mouth was pursed as he stared down at his hands. "Isn't that your little boyfriend?" Frank asked.

"He's not my boyfriend," Kyle answered.

"Sorry," Wendy mouthed. Kyle gave her a shrug, and then he looked back down at his hands.

"So let me get this straight," Frank said. He snorted again. "No pun intended. You—" He pointed at Wendy. "And his little crush—" He pointed at Kyle. "—had a sexual relationship."

"Well, 'relationship' would be a stretch," Wendy said defensively. "We just fuck every now and then."

"I don't have a little crush," Kyle murmured, and although Wendy gave him another sympathetic smile, no one answered.

"Listen, girlie, as much as I enjoy sniffing around adolescent sex lives, I'd hardly call this—" He gestured to the test results. "—proof that Eric Cartman isn't gay. For one thing, being gay wouldn't necessarily stop him from having sex with a female. For another, how do I know both of you didn't just have sex with Stan Marsh, and never slept with each other? Andwhy should I discount Butters Stotch's testimony?" Pause. "And why should I discount yours?"

"Mine?" Kyle asked, raising his head.

"The first time we met, you told me yourself that Eric Cartman is gay."

"I did?"

"You bet you did. See here." Frank flipped open his notebook and pulled out a typed transcript. "Why me?" Frank read, emotionlessly and mechanically, like a robot. "I'm not that gay. You know who you should talk to? This kid named _Eric Cartman_. Now he's flaming."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Oh, Kyle."

"What?" Kyle's cheeks began to redden. "You're taking my words out of context!" he shouted, pointing at Frank, whose lips were pressed together in smug satisfaction. "I wasn't being literal!"

"You called a boy 'flaming,' " Frank replied. "In _relation_ to the fact that you apparently aren't. The entire reason I was _speaking_ with you is based on the premise that you would help me identify resources to determine the nature of one's sexuality. So really, either you were _wrong_, or you were _lying_."

"I was _joking_."

"How is that a joke?" Frank asked. "It's not very funny."

"No one said a joke had to be funny," Kyle reasoned. "Being funny isn't essential to joking."

"No, that is in fact what makes a thing a joke. Let's take a topical example. If I made a joke about your religion, and it was very funny, no harm, no foul. If it were not funny, that would make me a bigot."

"You're a bigot anyway with your stupid project!"

"Arguing about my research gets us nowhere. You can't _stop_ me, either of you." Frank nodded compulsively at Wendy, if only to acknowledge she was still in his presence. "And I hardly think what I'm pursuing here is wrong. At the risk of sounding cliché, I have gay friends. I'm not a homophobe. I'm just an academic looking to prove something big. How the information I use is handled by those who have access to it is none of my concern."

"It is your concern!" Kyle cried.

Wendy nodded. "There is such a thing as personal responsibility, Mr. Granger."

"Tell it to my backers. Or — or, let me give you a relevant comparison. The German ethnologists of the Second Reich are often blamed for the genocide of the Third, but their scientific purpose was in no way anti-Semitic, merely enlightened, contextually sanctioned imperialism. Should we put the responsibility on them?"

"Yes," Kyle answered without hesitancy.

"Why are you doing this, Broflovski?"

"I want you to realize that you're wrong," Kyle simply stated.

"Well, good luck with that, kid."

"Look, dude, you have a lot to learn about little mountain towns. No, scratch that. You will never understand _South Park_. Anyone in this town will tell you that Cartman's a fucking manipulative asswipe self-serving liar. Anyone can tell you that Butters is a delusional freak who just believes whatever. I just admitted that _I _lied to you. Your conclusions are going to be totally, totally fucked up. So think of it this way: I'm doing you a favor by saving you this humiliation."

"But _why_?" Frank pressed.

"That's what I'd like to know," Wendy agreed.

"Because I don't want you publishing a study suggesting that it's possible to end homosexuality, r-tard! And if you go ahead and publish it anyway, I will personally forward your department these materials." Kyle pointed to Wendy's STD test results. "So, yeah. Either you back down, or we humiliate you."

"How do you think you could _possibly_ humiliate me? This one little STD test isn't going to _convince_ anyone." Frank pulled off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, look. Kyle. I know you're only _16—_"

"I'll be 17 next month, jackass."

"—you're only 16 right now, but you're a pretty smart kid, so I'll make you a deal: When I publish_ my_ paper, I'll invite you to write a section cautioning against the misuse of the data, and I'll credit you as my research assistant. Both of you. Sound good?"

"Sort of."

"Wendy!"

"Sorry."

"Look." Kyle crossed his arms. "Wendy, help me out here."

"Mr. Granger, it's imperative that I get Eric to stop fooling around with this. Do you know how embarrassing it is for an entire school, let alone town, to see my boyfriend … _ish_ … being trailed around by a flamboyantly gay boy in neon-colored pants? It's ridiculous!"

"Well, I'm sorry, but I really don't have any reason to take _your_ word over his. … Even if he _is_ a questionable source. No one _else_ knows that."

Wendy groaned. "Ugh, I was really hoping not to need this…" She stuck a hand into her bag. "Where the hell did I put this thing?"

"What's she looking for?" Frank asked Kyle.

"No idea."

"Found it!" Wendy pulled out a CD-ROM in a thin jewel case. "Here you go," she said, handing it to Frank. "That might be convincing."

Frank looked up at her. "What _is_ it?"

"That, Mr. Granger, is a video Eric and I made. Of ourselves. … Having sex." She coughed. "I may or may not be wearing a nurse's uniform," she added under her breath.

Kyle's eyes bulged out. "Wendy!" he cried. "Jesus fucking _Christ_!"

"Well, he's not going to listen to logic!"

"So what, you just pull out a video of you and Cartman _fucking_? … Oh my _god_, I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for how much I've discussed his _sex life_ today, Jesus _Christ_."

Frank was staring at the CD in his hands. "You're … serious?" he asked.

"Dead serious." She nodded. "Feel free to keep that one. Jerk off to it, for all I care. I've got back-ups and encryption and whatever. And despite the fact that it is _utterly_ humiliating, and will probably ruin my chance at any kind of public service career, I'd be willing to forward that to whoever is backing your project. But, then, I suppose I _wouldn't_ show you that unless I was convinced it would get you to stop things."

Frank moaned. "Kid, I don't think you _understand_. You cannot just _end_ a project with this much funding because it turns out your entire hypothesis was based on a town full of lunatics. You're both lunatics, do you know that? It's just not _done_ in that academic community."

"Well, done or not, Frank, you have three days to decide whether or not to incur our wrath," Kyle said.

"Your wrath? You mean sending a sex tape to Duke University?"

Wendy smirked. "Three days, Mr. Granger." She flipped some hair out of her eyes, and leaned in, putting her arms on Frank's shoulders. "I'd think carefully if I were you. You do _not_ want to fuck with Wendy Testaburger." She withdrew, and straightened out her skirt. "Well, okay. I think you're got a bit to think about. It was a _pleasure_ meeting you. Come on, Kyle."

She turned to walk out.

"Bye, Frank!" Kyle gave a sarcastic wave before following Wendy out the door.

XXX

The heat in Wendy's old beater hissed as it seethed from the vents, her veinless, hairless hands spread in front of them, gathering heat. "Come on, come on," she panted, legs trembling under her skirt. "I'm sorry, this thing is a piece of crap."

"Why do you have the heat on anyway?" Kyle loosened the buttons of his peacoat, and made a feeble attempt to push the bulky sleeves up his forearms.

"It's freezing."

"It's _spring_. Christ, Wendy, it's almost May."

"It's climate change," she scoffed, banging on the dashboard over a sputtering grill choking out warm air. "Bitches like me driving cars like this are fucking up the planet."

"It's Colorado." Kyle crossed his arms, knees clenched in her confining bucket seat. "How long have you lived here?"

"Too long, by any account."

"Agreed." Kyle wanted to roll down the window, to get some of the late-afternoon air into the cramped space he and Wendy shared, as he felt the skin under his right-handed grip moisten and the fingers of his left hand, tucked into his right armpit, cramped between the heaviness of his coat. But he shook his head and reconsidered it, fully aware that Wendy was cold. How could she be cold? She was too slim, too dainty, to have good circulation. Girl's hearts probably pumped slowly, weakly, powering through very little. If Kyle was sure of nothing else, he was certain that no one's heart beat as fiercely as his did. Under his weight he felt a plastic case in his back pocket groan, trapped underneath his assets. He shifted.

"What do you think of my last-minute improvisation?"

"You mean, that wasn't a real movie?"

"No, it was." She twisted the heating dial.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to _do_ that?"

"Because what if he'd folded?" she asked. "I didn't know where our conversation could have gone. That was my ace, you see. You don't play the ace on the first hand."

"You might if you want to end the game," Kyle suggested.

"I think we both agree that playing the game is all of the fun."

Kyle sighed. "A fucking film of you and Cartman fucking. I feel dirty just _saying_ it." He shuddered. "Fuck me, man. Fucking fuck it. … You don't think he'll actually _watch_ it, do you?"

"No." Wendy turned the heat down again incrementally. "I wouldn't have done it if I thought he'd look at it. A man like that isn't sexual enough to care. Academics rarely are. It's all so … well, I think he'd be rather disturbed by two people who are clearly into each other having sex, like for real. For guys like that it's all talk and no doing."

"You think he's asexual?"

"Maybe."

"I never even thought about Frank Granger like that. I never even considered he might have his own … you know, feelings."

"Exactly," Wendy agreed. "That's who he is. That's how people like him _are_. He's not, like, bad-looking, though. Do you think he's a virgin?"

"So what if he is?" Kyle dropped his arms. "_I'm_ a virgin!"

"Much to many a boy's great annoyance."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means almost any boy in our class would die happy being the one to alleviate that little _problem_ for you."

"Problem?" Kyle's cheeks reddened. Suddenly the car felt much more overheated than it had when Wendy had the heat cranked up full-blast. "Who says it's a problem?"

"I didn't say it was a problem; you did."

"No I didn't! In fact I said it should matter whether or not someone is, because for your information, Wendy, I could have had sex if I wanted to, and I didn't!"

"All boys want to have sex," Wendy said. "For that matter, so do all girls — it's just that we have more to lose from it. Everyone likes sex, Kyle, unless they're asexual, and I really don't think you're asexual."

"I'm not, I'm just—"

"I just don't know what you're waiting for, is that I'm saying."

"Who says I'm waiting for anything? By most people's definition I've had plenty of sex, just not — just not in the Biblical sense, I guess."

"What does the Bible have to do with it?" Wendy snapped the dial to the left, shutting it off completely.

"I don't know." Kyle shrugged. "All my life I've been raised in a family that does things by the book — you know, _the_ book. My father practices law — I think I decided when I was bar mitzvah-ed that I didn't want to be a lawyer. I have a fundamental problem with _the law_. Specifically, honoring my mother and father. They mean well, I know they do, but…" Kyle pressed his cheek against the damp window, his breaths clouding the glass. "But how can I _honor_ the people whose decisions have made me so _fucking_ unhappy? I don't know what my mother thought was out there in the _rest_ of the world, but I hate this fucking town, Wendy. I fucking hate it."

"I think we all do."

"You don't hate it. You're just sick of it. I fucking _hate_ South Park. If I could take a syringe and draw it from my veins, I would. I can't stand it here, I can't stand the people here, I can't bear thinking that I'm part of the problem."

"You're not." She reached for his arm; for once he did not shove her away. "It's only another year, Kyle. You'll make it."

"But that's the problem —I haven't even thought about where I'm going to college. I always assumed I would go _somewhere_, but the thought of having to beg my parents for money to let me run away from them is traumatizing. It's all her fault, you know. I've let that woman get away with telling me who I am for years now."

"I'm pretty sure your parents _want_ you to go to college."

"I'm sure at, like, Brandeis."

"That's a good school. I might apply to Brandeis."

"It's pointless." Kyle shook Wendy from his arm, and tugged down his sleeves. "I don't even know what I'm upset about. Things _actually_ seem like they might go my way for once. But if I've learned anything about living here it's that when things _seem_ like they might go your way, that's the time to worry."

Wendy smiled at him; it was the sort of indulgent smile a person gives to someone he pities. Kyle looked at her in the low, late-afternoon light; the aggressive curve of her painted lips bothered him. Kyle didn't know why he was sharing things with Wendy, especially self-indulgent under-developed musings on his future, which was as unclear to him as why he was sitting in a girl's car right now. He resented her, but respected her. She seemed so perfect, as if all of her decisions were golden, her promising fate sealed. Everything about her was calculated — even the pink grease smeared across her mouth was carefully applied with care and assurance. She left nothing to chance. Kyle thought about the guys in his life he called friends; they were never put-together, except for Craig, and even Craig carried as air of uncaring detachment, like the functions of the world meant nothing to him.

"I'm sorry about Stan," Wendy said, perhaps out of nowhere. "I know it's tough. I guess if you and I can be friends I won't hook up with him anymore — I mean, I really don't _anymore_. I think I've learned my lesson."

Kyle shook his head. He didn't want to chastise her, because he didn't want to think about it, but he was also reluctant to take her bait. He sighed.

"I have to go," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"You don't have a cassette player in this car, right?" Kyle asked, even though he could see that she didn't.

"My parents had the stereo replaced with a CD-player when they gave it to me."

"Well, I have to get somewhere." He pulled up the lock on the passenger-side door. "It's been great, Wendy." Then he shook his head: "Well, no, it hasn't. But thank you."

"For what?" she asked.

"I'm _so_ not really sure."

She watched him crawl out of the front seat, and set off into South Park, alone and unguarded.

XXX

"What?" was the first thing Craig asked after answering the door. He had abandoned his hat. He was leaning against the doorframe, bare arms folded, eyebrows raised. Kyle tried to read Craig's eyebrows: Were they defensive, inquisitive, resigned? He realized that he just couldn't tell.

So he just cleared his throat, and croaked out a hoarse, "Hey."

"What?" Craig asked again. He was very conspicuously not inviting Kyle in. Why wasn't he wearing a hat? What was that all about? Like always, it was beautifully styled, loose pieces of jet-black hair glued in place with products, stapled with heat. Kyle remembered edging his nose under Craig's hat just enough to smell a mixture of coconut and chemical. He missed that. He sighed.

"Hey." He realized he was repeating himself, but it didn't bother him. He shuffled his feet. "I, uh." He coughed. Kyle looked up at Craig, and their eyes locked. "I sort of need your help with something."

"_My_ help?" Craig asked. Carefully, he took a step back, and the door moved with him. "What could you possibly need _my_ help for?"

"Because." Kyle reached into his pocket, and drew out the cassette. He held it up, hoping that Craig would see it in all its glory.

Craig's eyes widened. "Who uses tapes anymore?" he asked.

"I don't know." Kyle shrugged. Then he said, "Well, Stan does. It's from Stan. I mean, the tape is. I mean, I don't know where he got the tape, I don't think I've ever known him to be into tapes, or listening to tapes, or making tapes, but he made it. I know he made it 'cause he put it in my locker, for one thing, and I know that was him because no one else knows the combination to my locker. And he wrote his initials, see?" Kyle tapped the cassette box with his free hand, unsure of whether Craig _could_ see, but whatever.

"Kyle," Craig said. "You're rambling."

Kyle blushed. "Sorry."

"Well." Craig stepped away from the door, crooking a finger. "Why don't you step inside?" When Kyle was in, he whispered his thanks, and Craig crossed his arms again. "So, you have a little tape from your crush," he said. Kyle could hear the acid in his voice, but for some reason, it wasn't all spite — Craig sounded a little sad, too. "What do you think it means?"

"Well, that's why I came to you," Kyle explained. "You have a tape deck, don't you?"

Craig nodded. "But every asshole I know has a tape deck. I mean, you have one in your car. For that matter, Kenny has one. Why didn't you go ask Kenny?"

Kyle looked down. "I don't think me and Kenny are talking these days."

"I know."

Kyle looked back up at Craig. For a moment, Craig smiled. Then he shook his head and said, "Well, come on. Your stupid tape's not gonna listen to itself."

As they walked up the stairs, Craig asked, "Why didn't you listen in your car?"

"Oh." Kyle waited until they were in front of the door to Craig's bedroom to answer. He blushed again, which he felt somewhat self-conscious about, as it seemed to him he'd been doing it a lot lately. "My parents took my keys," he confessed.

Craig snorted. "What'd you do?"

"I don't fucking know."

"Well, how'd you get _here_?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I walked, dude. It's like, a five-minute walk. I was at Harbucks with Wendy and Frank Granger."

"Yeah, she told me you were back to plotting."

"About that." Kyle cleared his throat. "I had no idea you and Wendy, like, talked."

"We watch _Degrassi_ together and get crunk and bitch about guys," Craig explained.

"I never remember you guys doing that."

"I never did it while we were dating because there was nothing to bitch about." Craig grasped the tape from Kyle's hands. "Okay, let's see here." The plastic casing slid right into Craig's cassette player. "Anything could be on this tape, you know."

Kyle shrugged. "I know. It's just … I'd like to have _anything_ right now, you know? I feel like I haven't had anything for a while."

"I understand."

Kyle held his breath, and Craig hit _play_.

XXX

They stood holding hands as the tape looped through its recording, raspy and crackling, more distorted than a well-mastered CD track but less static than a badly ripped digital file. Craig fidgeted, wanting to sit down, but Kyle was frozen — enrapt. He didn't move. Even as the tape rolled over onto its second side, Kyle was tense and sweating. As it coasted to a buzzing finish two songs into side B, he shivered and let go of Craig's hand.

"Well?" Kyle asked.

"I think it's over." Craig stroked his tape deck, and hit _stop/eject_ twice. He handed Kyle back his tape.

"Well?" Kyle asked.

"Well what?"

"Well, what does _that_ mean?"

"What do you mean, what does that mean? Didn't you listen to it?"

Kyle just shrugged.

"Kyle, I love you." Craig sighed. "But you're hopelessly retarded. No guy makes you a fucking mixtape with a heart on it with all these songs by Marvin Gaye and _I want to fuck you like an animal_ and whatever just for the hell of it."

"Well, okay, so what does _I want to fuck you like animal_ mean?"

"It means he wants to fuck you. Probably like an animal. But I'm no rocket scientist. Don't quote me there."

"No. No way." Kyle shook his head. His cheeks felt hot. "Stan wouldn't … he doesn't, um … Stan is _straight_, Craig."

"Oh yeah?" Craig uncrossed his arms, shifted his weight. "Why are you so sure?"

"Because he has sex with women."

"I've had sex with women."

"No way. … Unless you mean Butters," Kyle added quickly. "Stan definitely is not interested in men. He's interested in girls. I would know, he's my best friend, and I'm completely in love with him. I think it's kind of cruel that he'd so pointedly try to upset me with this, but we've been fighting lately, so I guess I deserve. On some level. I'm sure. Or, or — or this could be some _sick_ joke of Cartman's. He probably hassled Stan for the combination to my locker, made Stan label a mixtape for me so Stan's shitty handwriting would be all over it— "

"You're overcomplicating this. That" — Craig pointed at the tape clutched in Kyle's sweaty hands — "is a come-on. Either you can stand here trying to talk me into going along with your dumb reasoning, pretending that the guy you'd rather have sex with than _me_ didn't just make you a total old-school crush tape, or you can accept it, and go do whatever you want about it. Knowing you, he'll have to club you over the head with a mallet and drag you back to his cave before you get that far, but whichever. _We_ broke up, so it's none of my business."

"He's _straight_."

"Sure, the kind of straight man who wants to bone another man."

"Stop arguing with me! I know him, and you don't! He doesn't like me the way I like him and I have to get over it!"

"Kyle!" Craig grabbed him by the shoulders. "We're going downstairs. You need to leave now."

The Tucker household always seemed abandoned. Kyle hated it. He felt like he wasn't allowed to say anything in their carpeted hallways, or stumbling down their walnut stairs. If Craig ever mentioned that his family would be around, Kyle made a point to avoid them. The father was a fat loudmouth, the mother had never said anything he could recall, and he'd never even _seen_ the sister. Kyle wondered if Craig had similar feelings about _his_ family. Now obviously wasn't the time to discuss it.

The door swung open to reveal the desolate front yard in twilight. "Well?" Craig asked. "Aren't you going to get going?"

Standing still, Kyle asked, "But what if you're wrong? If I risk everything and go tell him how I feel, and it turns out he doesn't want me — or worse yet, what if it turns out he does want me? What if even if he's someone I _could_ be with, he's not the person I _should_ be with?" Kyle lowered his voice, and approached Craig, laying a hand on the other boy's hip. "If I just threw this stupid tape away, and told you I wanted to go upstairs with you and — and pretend like nothing since that stupid dance ever happened…"

"What sort of man would I be if I stood between my ex-boyfriend and his best friend getting together?" Craig asked. He shut his eyes tightly.

Kyle threw his hands up. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I'm giving you a chance here! I don't know—"

Craig grabbed Kyle by the lapels of his pea coat. "A fucking bad one," Craig informed Kyle in his sultriest tone. Then, predictably — or perhaps not, considering Kyle hadn't seen it coming — he drew their mouths together, and was not stingy with the tongue. Not sure what to do, Kyle closed his eyes. He opened his mouth wider, and began to get into it. In a way, kissing Craig was like riding a bicycle — you never really forgot how to do it. Or you always secretly sort of wished you were still doing it. Or you liked it more when you hadn't done it for a while. Or you got hard while you were doing it. Or all of those. Or none of those. Kyle didn't know, and he didn't care. He wasn't thinking about pulling away; he was just enjoying himself. Of course, that was when Craig decided to stop, letting go of Kyle's lapels and pushing him backward by the chest.

"I'm a horrible, terrible man," Craig said with a smirk. "Go get that boy. You want him, and he's apparently hot for you." Craig wiped his lips with his wrist.

"But—"

"Run, Kyle! Run like the wind!" He slammed the door shut.

"What the fuck!" Kyle exclaimed. He stuck the tape back in his pocket, and did just what Craig had told him to do.

While running, Kyle internalized a couple of things. One, he was still out of shape. Not fat, of course, but he deeply felt that running should not be this unpleasant. Two, it was time to stop wearing his winter coat. Three, he should not run with things in his pockets. Four, a couple is two, and he was now cognizant of four things, total. It didn't matter. The streets were wet with the melting chunks of leftover snow, all of which was gray and flecked with bits of dead grass. Every so often, he had to jump over an obstacle — a pile of snow on the sidewalk or a something. It didn't matter; his mind was focused. He knew where the boys scrimmaged, a vacant lot behind the liquor store that Kenny's older brother worked at. It didn't matter how small this town was; he felt like he'd been running forever.

He didn't know why he was running. Was it the sense of urgency he felt? The idea that running toward your true love was romantic? Did all people who ran have questions like this? He had to dodge an old lady with a cart of groceries on Main Street, and then he very nearly ran into a dumpster as he rounded the corner of the liquor store. With a final breathless pant, he halted when he got to the lot, and hunched, and put his hands on his knees. He looked up at the boys playing football. Some of these guys were familiar from games he'd watched, but in general, the only ones he really knew were Stan, who was holding the ball, and Cartman, who was sitting flat on his ass in the mud talking in agitation to some guy standing over him. Who knew Cartman argued with everyone, that it wasn't just him?

It was now or never, Kyle figured. So he straightened up, took a deep breath, and charged.

Tackling Stan only came easily because Kyle had done it from behind, unexpected, and Kyle knew this. He couldn't put any faith in his own strength. He just knew that Stan was under him, and perhaps other high school boys, including Cartman were looking at them, but in the heat of the moment he didn't have any other ideas. He wished he's asked Craig what to _do_ once he tracked down Stan. With his thoughts scrambled and his heart in his throat, he pressed a kiss to Stan's mouth.

Stan responded, and for an all-too-brief moment things were okay. Then Stan's lips stilled, the screech of traffic in downtown South Park came back in focus from a distance, and Eric Cartman, without a hint of irony, shouted out, "Are you actually kissing a _Jew_, Stan? That is so sick!"

Kyle looked up to Cartman to glare at him.

"Eric, _bro_, that's not cool," some boy with a scraggly beard said.

"Sorry," Cartman scoffed. "Didn't know you guys ran around just kissing each other all willy-nilly in Middle Park. What is it, like a big gay party up there? Seriously."

"Only on special occasions," the Middle Parker joked.

"Fags."

Stan pinched his nose and shut his eyes, shaking his head, but he didn't push Kyle off, which made everything in the world seem right by Kyle.

"Do you need a minute, Marsh?" the bearded boy from Middle Park asked. Kyle didn't know who he was, maybe he was the team captain. Kyle didn't care.

Stan helped Kyle to his feet after pushing himself up; mud painted Stan's jeans from the back pockets to the cuffs, halting only where his knees hadn't actually hit the ground. "Yeah," Stan said deliberately, brushing his sleeves, which weren't dirty at all. "We'll just be a few."

"Okay," said Bearded North Parker, before he yelled for a needless timeout to the group, making a perpendicular hand gesture.

Stan and Kyle did not go _behind_ the liquor store, exactly, as they were already behind it on the makeshift scrimmage field. But Stan led Kyle around to the side of the building — not before tossing the football to the ground — glancing around a bit to ensure no one was looking in on them. Other than Cartman, Kyle did not much mind if anyone did; in fact, he might have preferred that Cartman did look on, if only to see the look on his old _frenemy_'s face when Stan had to admit that he'd made Kyle a pretty gay mixtape. Still, Kyle's heart was beating furiously, elevating him beyond the reality of the situation. He hated how collected Stan seemed through this, unruffled as always, less embarrassed than just barely annoyed.

"Stanley…"

"I don't know what to say." Stan coughed into his fist. He still seemed pretty level. "I was wondering if you got my tape. I guess you did?"

Kyle grinned at the way Stan's voice kicked up at the end of the sentence.

"Yeah, I did. I listened to it."

"Okay."

Stan was leaning on the side of the liquor store, a painted-brick structure (with the yellow paint peeling away to reveal the previous color, turquoise) with a stream of dirty snow melting off the gutters of the building, dribbling down the yellow bricks. His arms were crossed, he looked aloof, but his voice gave more away than Kyle had previously thought. He knew Stan, and he had to remind himself of it.

"Why did the second side stop two songs in?"

"Oh." Stan scratched the back of his neck. "I ran out of songs."

"You've known me since you were months old and you can't fill two entire sides of a cassette tape with songs about me?"

"Who said that tape was _about_ you?"

Counting this as a setback, Kyle asked, "Where'd you find all those dopey songs, anyway?"

"My dad. He, like, has a bunch of old records. He showed me how to dub things. And I got the Nine Inch Nails off the radio."

"Since when do you listen to the radio?"

"I never _listen_ to the radio. I just called them and asked them to play that song, and when I came on I recorded it. It wasn't hard; it wasn't like a lot of effort."

Somehow, this made it seem to Kyle like a lot of effort. "This all sounds so sweetly antiquated. I just, um." He shrugged. "Help me out, Stanley. What do you _want_ me to say to you?"

"Me?"

Kyle nodded.

"Well, I don't know, I sort of have to get back to football practice…"

"Dude, I—"

"Look." Stan shut his eyes. "Ugh, sorry, I'm bad at planning this shit out. I'm sorry, I'm taking Kenny's advice, and he's got a preponderance of ideas on big sweeping romantic gestures culminating in multiple climaxes, and how it might be beneficial if I videotaped it, but to be honestly, I'm not … really sure … I don't know what I want."

"Well, I don't fucking know what you want!" Kyle yelled. Now he had half a mind to slap Stan across the face. Ugh, no, that was way too girly. He had half a mind to slug Stan in the gut. "I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Stanley! You have to tell me what you want from me because you just led me to humiliate myself in front of like a dozen straight guys I don't know _not to mention Cartman, _too!"

"Sorry." Stan clasped his hands. "It's not like they're chasing after you with torches. Besides, I'm the one who got kissed. I never told you to _sack me_ in the middle of a scrimmage."

"When was I supposed to do it?" Kyle was shaking. "Fucking do something, Stanley! I can't take this anymore!"

"Take what?"

"Ask me out or something, dickbag!"

"Oh." Stan grabbed one of Kyle's wrists, fist unclenching, and Stan slid their hands together. Kyle could feel mud and calluses on Stan's fingers. "Kyle, do you want to go out to dinner tomorrow night? Maybe we can talk, or something."

"Okay," Kyle agreed. "But I don't want pizza. I just don't put out for any old crap."

"Yes, that's right, I have to get you drunk first."

Their hands unlinked, and for a moment they said nothing — Kyle scowled, and Stan pecked him on the cheek before returning to practice.

"Tomorrow," Stan repeated to Kyle as he walked away. "I'll pick you up at 7."

"I'm grounded," Kyle replied.

"So—"

"So I guess I'll just have to sneak out. Again."

"Whatever you have to do."

Soon Kyle heard the shouting of the football practice resume from the other side of the liquor store. He felt numb, but he also believed that he had the strength to weather his parents — well, really his mother — when he got back to the house. He was sure she had left dozens of messages on the phone that was sitting on his nightstand — that is, if she'd realized at all that he'd left. Perhaps she hadn't. At long last, Kyle dared to hope.

* * *

Next time: the exciting conclusion. Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to leave some critique. I can't wait to change the status of this story to "complete." Hopefully it won't take so long this time.


	10. Chapter 10

This is pretty much for the people who asked me to finish this. (Believe it or not, there were some.) I've been writing this chapter since 2008, and I'm glad to be able to post it. I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading.

* * *

Getting through a school day on the false pretense that everything in life was normal was not easy for Kyle. Wendy smiled at him in chemistry, and he could only return it after reminding himself that his grasp on things was too tentative to let it dictate his demeanor. At lunch, he didn't know where to sit, again having to decide if he'd rather face the uncertainty he felt about interacting with Stan and Kenny, or the painful reminder of lunch with Craig. He emerged carting a tray filled up with wan iceberg lettuce leaves drizzled with amber-colored salad dressing and a plastic cup of lumpy tapioca — Kyle didn't even like these things, but he'd been so distracted in the lunch line that by the time a sophomore boy was barking at him to speed the hell up, he could only grasp for the nearest sustenance and move on. He still didn't know where to sit. Kenny didn't seem to be at lunch, but the thought of sitting with Stan still bothered him — he had no idea how to pretend they hadn't kissed the night before.

Then again, at his usual table, Craig was still holding court, talking to Thomas and seductively licking a popsicle, gesturing obscenely at anyone who contradicted him. Only then did Kyle remember that he'd kissed Craig yesterday, too.

Kyle dumped the salad and pudding off of his lunch tray, and went to sit by himself in the library again. For someone who'd kissed a lot of boys, he sure felt lonely. As it happened, his parents had been grocery shopping when he'd come home the night before, and didn't hear his key twisting in the knob. Ike was home, but swore he wouldn't tell. "I'll blackmail you later," was the best Kyle got. How he was going to get out again _tonight_ was anyone's guess. Maybe if he just walked out no one would notice. Maybe if his mother caught him, he'd leave anyhow. After all, what could she possibly do — physically stop him from going out?

In Latin, Cartman smirked at him, making kissy-lips and batting his eyelashes shamelessly.

"Grow up," Kyle hissed after the bell rang. Their classmates where throwing things into backpacks, trying to get to the next period.

"I know some-thing you did last night that you weren't supposed to," Cartman sang.

Kyle was no longer shocked by what Cartman could fit into a tuneful taunt. "I'm honestly not in the mood to do this," he said.

"So who cares if you're in the mood?" Cartman asked. "It's no fun giving a hard time to someone who _wants_ to be hassled."

"But isn't it supposed to be _more_ fun if I respond to your bullshit?"

Cartman shook his head. "Absolutely not," he replied. From his pocket, he produced a fussy, compactly folded sheet of yellow notebook paper; unfurling it revealed a scribbled set of calculations running along a marked-up bell curve. "You see, Jew, over _here_" — he pointed to the start of the curve — "is you disinterested in arguing with me. As you can see, this results in you ignoring me and walking away. Over _here_" — he shifted to the opposite side of the diagram — "is when you _want_ to argue. That's when you can get the better of me. Granted, that rarely happens, but I find it's much more enjoyable to win against a worthy opponent. And in the middle, the high point of arguing." Cartman tapped on the apex of the curve, labeled with a crooked star and an exclamation point. "And here we have the _climax _— I know you have a hard time _achieving_ those, but even you can understand the high point of any good rivalry. I like it when you're not so invested in the duel that you can win, but at least interested enough so that I piss you thoroughly off. It's all about calculations, Kyle — the best generals, like Napoleon and Hitler, knew when to strike."

"I'm so glad you waste your time making up elaborate charts about how to get to me. I shouldn't even remind you that both Hitler and Napoleon were defeated eventually."

"Yes, but greatness can always be improved upon." Cartman re-folded his piece of paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Auf wiedersehen, Kyle. Enjoy your date tonight."

"Hey!" Kyle called after Cartman. "How the fuck do you—"

But Cartman was gone and wasn't turning back.

XXX

After school, Kyle visited the main office with the intention of making an appointment with South Park High School's college counselor — a middle-aged lady who wore very short pinstripe skirts, and had a girlish, grating titter that Kyle could sometimes hear as he walked by her office. Maybe it was her off-putting personality that had kept him from doing this earlier, and maybe it wasn't. He got an appointment — next Friday after school; he was supposed to bring his transcript. "Where do I get a copy of my transcript?" he asked Miss Johansen, the school receptionist.

"I'll print one out for you," she said warmly, scribbling his appointment down on an adhesive note. "Best of luck, Kyle."

He shrugged and said, "Okay. Thanks." He wasn't really sure why he wanted to do this. He knew he had a 3.74, ranked fifth out of however many, and Kyle didn't care. He had help from some of his honors courses, but he had little patience for gym class, or art classes. He wondered if this was going to hurt him if he wanted to go to a nice college and get the hell away from Colorado.

XXX

When Kyle's mother picked him up from school, Ike was already ensconced in the front seat. It had been so long since Kyle had been driven around by one of his parents that it didn't even occur to him that perhaps someone else might be riding shotgun. So without noticing his brother, Kyle had opened the door, and thrown his backpack onto Ike's lap.

"Hey!" Ike squealed, tossing it right back at Kyle. "I'm here already!"

Kyle blinked. "Well, get out. I'm in front."

Ike rolled his eyes. "Not going anywhere," he protested.

"I'm older! You get in back."

"I was here first!"

"But _I'm older_—"

A loud blaring noise disturbed this argument, as Sheila leaned on her horn. "Kyle, don't be difficult!" she snapped. "Get in the backseat."

"I'd rather walk home."

"You are not walking home because I don't trust you, and who knows where you'll go?"

"Well, since I have no friends and this pathetic excuse for a town is missing anything of any value, I don't really have anywhere to go, do I?"

"Kyle!" Sheila unbuckled her seatbelt. "If you don't get into the car right this second I will God help me _throw_ you in. Is that understood?"

As Kyle slipped into the backseat, cheeks red, feeling impressively impotent, Ike turned around to smirk at him.

"Don't push it," Kyle growled.

"Ike, sit back down like normal and put your seatbelt on. Kyle! You too. Seatbelt!"

"Yes, mein fuhrer." Kyle tugged at the seatbelt. "Whatever you say."

"That is so inappropriate!"

"Eh."

The drive home was not long, but first his mother wanted to stop at the post office, leaving left her sons to wait in the car across the street. Briefly Kyle figured that this was his chance to escape, and he could deal with the consequences later. But when he tried to get the door open, he realized his mother had used child-safety locks. This enraged him, but he decided to quell that anger and appeal to his brother.

"Ike," he said sweetly, scooting more toward the middle of the car so they could talk. "Can you do me a favor and turn off the child locks?"

Again, Ike got up on his knees and looked Kyle in the eyes. "I really think I shouldn't. I think that what will probably happen is you'll want to run out of the car. And if that happened, um, Mom would be kind of angry."

"Well, we don't have to tell her you undid the safety locks," Kyle said, trying to rationalize disobedience. "Just say you were trying to open her window, and you hit it by mistake, or you were trying to get the heat on—"

"I'm not stupid, Kyle." Ike rolled his eyes. "The heating controls are in the middle, not on the door."

"Oh, aren't you smart? Seriously, though, Ike, it would really mean—"

"No! Stop pressuring me!" At which point Ike turned back around and put the radio on at full volume. Unfortunately, Ike listened to this generic alleged "classic rock" station that usually played endless hours of hair metal and cheesy grunge imitators. Kyle groaned, and lay down across the backseat.

It wasn't long until Sheila returned. "That line, it's ridiculous," she explained. "Sorry, boys."

"It doesn't matter," Kyle muttered, sitting back up. "I'm a prisoner anyway. I can't _go_ anywhere."

"I can give you somewhere to go," his mother suggested. She was driving down Main Street now, away from the post office, at a speed of about 12 miles an hour. This really pissed Kyle off, but he felt it was best to hold his tongue. (The speed limit was twice that, though, and it was nerve-racking.) "Your brother has krav maga at 6 p.m. You can do me a favor and drive him."

"Oh, super," Kyle said, sarcastic. "That sounds fun."

"But you have to come right home," she added.

"Oh, goody."

"Okay, that's great. I can have more time to make dinner now. I was thinking lamb chops. I have some in the fridge."

"Wow, super," Kyle lied. He knew he wouldn't be eating lamb chops that night, regardless of whether or not his mother was cooking it.

XXX

For homework, Kyle had a translation of 15 Latin sentences, all using the ablative absolute. The first was easy: "While Caesar lay dying, the senators were at home." Gradually they became harder and harder until the final, the most difficult, proved impossible to translate. Kyle got as far as, "Although it was said that as the slave was at the forum," something something, and then the end of the sentence was, "fornicated with." This made Kyle chuckle, and he gave up, and felt lucky he didn't have to read any of the fucking _Aeneid_ that night. Maybe the slave wasn't fornicating. Maybe Kyle had mistranslated. He couldn't even tell who was the subject of the sentence. It could have been the slave, because 'the slave' was in the nominative and 'the forum' was locative, it could also have been any of the other nouns in the middle clause. Or maybe those were adjectives. Kyle was tired and impatient and he didn't care. He could leave one sentence untranslated, and if his teacher didn't like it, fuck that guy. Kyle still had not forgiven him for siding with Cartman about Dido and Aeneas.

At 5:45, Ike banged on Kyle's door, screaming, "It's time for krav maga! Hello!"

Kyle slammed his science textbook and stood up, pulling his shirt down. "How do I look?" he asked.

Ike scrunched up his mouth. "Um." He shrugged. "Why does it matter?"

"Oh, no reason, just want to look okay in case I … run into anyone I know."

"Accidentally?" Ike asked. "Or on purpose?"

"Accidentally on purpose."

"Well, that's not going to happen. You don't know anyone at the JCC. It's all old women who like self-defense classes. I mean super-old, like 35. One woman, she thinks I'm adorable and brings me a bag of potato chips every class. But don't tell mom because she'd say it's not gracious to accept a food-gift and besides, it would ruin my dinner. But I get hungry during krav maga! It's hard."

Kyle sighed, grabbing his bag. Then he dropped it on the floor. In a manic fit of anticipation, he'd packed an entire overnight bag, cramming the front pockets with condoms and little packets of lube. But at the last minute, he felt it wasn't such a good idea. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."

"What's that bag for?" Ike asked. "Why aren't you bringing it?"

"I'll tell you in the car."

On the way out the door, Kyle's father stopped him. "We just want you to know that we appreciate you driving your brother to his lesson," he said.

"Well, I don't see why Mom can't do it," Kyle said.

"Well, she has to cook dinner. Lamp chops."

"Yeah, I know. I know about the lamp chops."

"Come on!" Ike squealed. "I'm going to be late!"

"You do know that your mother and I, we — we only do the things we do because we care about you."

Rolling his eyes, Kyle replied, "I think that's what wife-batterers say, too."

"I'm going to be late!" Ike repeated, stamping his feet. "Kyle, if I'm late I have to stay late!"

"All right, fine, we're going." Kyle turned to head outside with Ike, grabbing the key to his Volkswagen from a hook by the door, to which it was tethered by a lanyard.

"I'll lock the door for you," his father called after them.

After getting in the car and buckling his seatbelt, Ike turned to Kyle, who was shifting to reverse and checking the rearview mirror. "So, what's your big plan?" he asked.

"What?" Kyle turned around to look for traffic. "No plan. Do I look like I have a plan?"

"Yes. You look like you're up to something. Are you up to something? What are you up to? Sneaking out? Sneaking out to where? Do you know someone at the JCC? I told you, it's only old women there, old women and me. You could sign up for a class if you want. They have crochet classes and also calisthenics. I think that one's during the day. Once when Mom was late to get me from a lesson I read the brochure. They have all these pamphlets on the wall by the door. I seriously hope you're not late to get me because I hate sitting in the building alone. Maybe you can just stay through the class, but don't make fun of me. It's a serious thing, krav maga. They do it in the IDF, you know."

"Ugh, Ike. Do you ever just shut the fuck up?"

"Sometimes." Ike blushed. "But, Kyle, I'm not an idiot. Maybe I'm shorter than you but I'm not _stupid_. You're going somewhere. I don't know a lot but I know when you're trying to look fancy."

"How is this _fancy_?" Kyle pointed to the black button-down shirt he was wearing. They were stopped at a red light at Main and Bonanza; Kyle had to make a left to get on the highway. The JCC was about three exits away, or 14 minutes of driving. Once, when he was bored, Stan had timed it — the exact time between exits on 285 heading toward Denver if one is driving exactly 63 miles an hour. And Kyle always, always drove exactly 63 miles an hour.

"That's what you wore to go out with Craig that one time," Ike pointed out. "I remember. To that dance."

"Oh, _you remember_, good job, that was like a week ago."

"I'm like the raptors in _Jurassic Park_. Have you ever seen that?"

Kyle groaned. He missed Ike being severely afraid of him. It made the kid a lot less easy to deal with. But Kyle knew that Ike knew that Kyle wouldn't dare risk his parents' wrath on something so trivial as sticking his fist in Ike's mouth. "Yes," Kyle gritted out. "I've seen _Jurassic_ fucking _Park_."

"You're definitely going somewhere," Ike repeated. "And you are _so_ not supposed to."

Kyle just grunted, and they drove in silence until pulling up in front of the JCC. It was an ugly old 1970s building in turquoise-painted brick, the sight of which made Kyle shudder a little.

Ike was unbuckling his belt, and about to say goodbye, when Kyle stopped him by saying, "So, what are you going to do, are you going to tell on me?"

"I think Mom and Dad would be pretty angry to know that you're grounded and I helped you get out of it," he said quietly. "You're such a dick, Kyle. Why do you have to be such a dick?"

"I really need to do this, Ike. _Really. _I don't think you can understand how much."

"So, tell me."

"Have you ever liked someone so much you just wanted to be with them every moment of your life? That whenever they were with anyone else, it actually hurt to breathe?"

Ike cocked his head. "I'm 10. Besides, I think if you can't breathe you should see a doctor. It might be making you stupid because oxygen can't get to your brain."

"_Ike—_"

"Sheesh, relax. I'm not going to rat you out. I hope you remember what a mensch I am the next time you get pissed and want to hit me or something. Then again, if you do…" Ike hopped into a defensive position and shouted, "Krav maga!" He lifted his hands into two supine fists. "I'll kick your ass!"

"Oh, Jesus." Kyle rubbed his eyes. "Okay, thank you. I'll remember. I promise."

Ike nodded. "Very good," he said. He toddled into the building.

Kyle sped off.

XXX

Leaving his car parked behind the library, his cell phone off and stashed in the glove compartment, Kyle dodged through the backyards. In some there were children, in others there were dogs. Generally there was no one, everyone seated at their dining tables having dinner with their families. Kyle thought about his own mother, preparing a dinner no one was going to eat. While he vaunted over a chain-link fence, he felt bad about it — but then his feet hit the ground, and he realized he didn't. Fuck her.

Stan's backyard was fertile, but unkempt. Weeds and crab grass ruled back here, and had since Randy Marsh decided abruptly one day not to mow any longer. Stan had never been so dutiful as to contribute to household chores, and the whole place was a mess, so unlike Kyle's own yard. But he didn't really care. He didn't like Stan for his dandelions, he liked him for his heart or whatever. Maybe his triceps. _Maybe_. Kyle liked to think he wasn't that shallow.

He was weak, though, his lungs burning from all the running and jumping and fighting and climbing he'd been up to, and at a loss for how to get Stan's attention without a phone. Could he climb up the side of Stan's house, knock on the window? Kyle searched for a foothold, but found only an even façade of green-painted brick. He didn't want to ring the bell, or even knock on the back door — Randy might not care, but he knew Sharon Marsh would turn him in immediately to his mother. They were in communication about this sort of thing, problems with their children. Kyle decided not to risk it.

He remembered when Craig had come to his window on a Saturday morning, trying to get his attention. What had Craig thrown? Gumballs. In retrospect it seemed retarded to Kyle, juvenile and sloppy. But it had worked, hadn't it? Hadn't be been charmed by it? Kyle searched through the grass for a stone, then flung them at Stan's window with an exaggerated windmill gesture.

Tongue between his teeth, Kyle tossed rocks at Stan's window. Some hit and some missed, but with every stone that fell back to the grass, the urge to cry built in him. Kyle knew he was not a romantic hero, was not made for this shit. He was going to be caught by his mother throwing rocks at his best friend's window, having abandoned his car by the town hall and his brother at a JCC up some mountain highway, shirking his responsibilities to homework and his punishment for — for what, for wanting to be a human being, to have a boyfriend, to live a normal life in this oppressive, awful town. The injustice of it all burned at him, make him want to fling himself on the ground.

Then Stan stuck his head out of the back door. "What are you doing?" he asked, impossibly calm.

"I—" Kyle began. "The window — I wanted…"

Stan laughed. Not derisively — with amusement. "I was sitting in the kitchen," he said. "You should have called."

"Your mother—"

Stan walked over to Kyle, grabbed him by his shoulder, dragged him into the house.

"_Is at the store_. You have to stop overthinking everything. Look at you."

Kyle sniffed. "What am I looking at?"

"Nothing." Stan picked up a tangle of keys from the kitchen table. "You look good."

"I do?"

"Yes." Stan's voice was very heavy. It made Kyle want to die right there, to fling himself on the ground and bury his head in Stan's lap, to just suffocate like that. It completely aroused him and he wondered if maybe dinner was unnecessary, maybe they could just go upstairs and _talk_. "Well, um." Stan was shuffling his feet, clearly more awkward than aroused. "If you're ready to go, we can—"

"_Yes_," Kyle breathed.

"Um, I'm borrowing my dad's car…"

"Okay." Kyle clasped his hands, pulled at the sleeves of his jacket. His feet were crossed and he felt unsteady.

Stan shook his head. "Okay, well, let's go." Kyle dutifully followed him out to the car.

They went, unpredictably, to an Olive Garden. It was not exactly nearby, but not so far away — suburban Denver, pretty much, a short, stilted drive down from the mountains, during which Stan kept the radio tuned to local chat about the traffic. Kyle said nothing, just looked out the window, thinking about how these were all the _things_ he was looking at on his date with Stan, guard rails on the overpasses and malls stretching from laundromat to pharmacy, with taquerias in between.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Kyle had to keep himself from exploding with indignation. "What?" he gasped. "Why here?" It was so big, so … public. Not what he'd been thinking at all.

"I dunno," said Stan, as he turned off the engine. "I'm not, um. I'm not very good at … you know, _dating_."

Kyle could not keep himself from saying, "No shit."

This seemed to make Stan at least _slightly_ insecure, or at least he got defensive about it. "I guess I thought it would be nice," he said. "I was trying to think of a nice place. Plus, you know, I've come here with football. For after the games, you know. After we clean up. They've always been nice to us. And I've come here with a couple of girls, too, who suggested it. One girl from Middle Park—"

Kyle felt his stomach drop into his pelvis. He must have made a face to this extent, because Stan sputtered, "It's not like it means anything!"

"Oh, so you're taking me to where you take girls you're trying to hook up with when it doesn't _mean_ anything!"

"No, I mean—" Stan seemed utterly confused, trying to talk his way out of this. "_They_ have suggested it, and they obviously liked me, so I figured this was a place people liked to come when it meant something? When they wanted it to mean something? I, um — I mean, I wasn't thinking about it _that_ much, I just want to go somewhere … someplace _nice_, you know? And out-of-town."

"Oh." The last part, at least, made Kyle feel better. "That makes sense."

"Plus I've been here enough that I know my fake ID works." He unbuckled his seatbelt, smirking.

An incredibly bubbly waitress sat them. Then another one came with some water. Kyle did not like the way these girls, this one in particular, looked at Stan. They seemed to _know_ him, or something. He began trying to silently talk himself out of it, about to let it go, when their waitress set her water pitcher down and put a hand on Stan's shoulder, asking if she could start them on drinks. Stan ordered two beers, Blue Moon on draft. Kyle was not sure if he was interested in drinking beer with _Italian food_, but he figured he could get a little tipsy and this insecurity and awkwardness he was feeling would dissipate.

But then the waitress asked to see Stan's ID, and when he handed it over, she gasped, "Hey, I know you," she said. "You're Stan Marsh!"

"That's right, I am."

"You're the quarterback of the football team."

Stan shrugged, but she kept looking at him intently, so he finally answered, "Yes."

"Oh my god! What are you doing eating _here_?"

"Um." Stan looked around. "I'm having dinner with my friend Kyle."

"Oh, yeah, your _friend_ Kyle," Kyle muttered.

"Oh my gosh, I go to school with you! I'm friends with — _hey_." The waitress furrowed her brows at Kyle. "I know you. Aren't you that gay Jew who got beat up by Eric Cartman? Craig Tucker's ex-boyfriend?"

"That was some other gay Jew." Kyle picked up his rolled napkin.

"Oh, sorry." She narrowed her eyes. "You look a _lot_ like that guy."

"Yeah, people are always saying that," Stan remarked. "Anyway, um, you've seen my ID. Would you mind please bringing us the drinks I ordered?" His lips broadened into a smile. "I would _so_ appreciate it."

"Right away, Stan! I mean, sir!" She bounced off in a hurry.

"Dude." Stan grasped the cold, sweaty glass of water in front of him. "What the fuck was _that_? You're most definitely the gay Jew Cartman beat up, and you're _totally_ Craig Tucker's ex-boyfriend. What gives?"

"I don't fucking know." Kyle gave a quick jolt to his rolled-up napkin, and it unfurled, silverware tumbling out onto his plate. "I don't owe some chick working in an _Olive Garden_ an explanation. Frankly, it's creepy. Speaking of creepy, what are you doing ordering _drinks_? I never said I wanted a beer!"

"Trust me, you do." Stan took a sip of water. "I'm going to get you—"

"What, _destroyed_? Drunk?"

"No, not — not _destroyed_. Just — you know, it'll be easier to do this if you're a little ... in the mood. I need to get you in the right frame of mind."

"The right frame of mind for _what_, Stanley, pasta?"

"You don't have to order pasta, order whatever you want. My dad gave me his credit card. Order the whole menu for all I care."

"Stanley, if you are insinuating what I think you are insinuating, which is that you're intending to … to — to have your way with me after dinner, or something, _you're out of your fucking mind_." Kyle's voice had dropped down to a whisper, but Stan heard him clearly.

"Well, what do you think I brought you here for?"

"You said to _talk_!"

"And you said if I bought you a nice dinner you'd put out!" Stan shot back.

"I was kidding! I just didn't want to eat pizza for the thousandth fucking time this year. I'm sick of it. I'm over pizza."

"Kyle, you were not kidding!"

"Yes, I was! I was joking!"

"How is enticing me into buying you a nice meal by implying you'd sleep with me afterward a _joke_?"

"Because it's not true and I wasn't being serious!"

"It's not a joke because it's not funny," Stan said. "What you said wasn't funny."

"Jokes don't have to be funny," Kyle argued.

"Dude, that's what makes something a _joke_!"

"Ugh!" Kyle slammed his fist on the table, making the silverware on his plate jump and the water in his condensation-slick glass slosh gently back and forth for a moment. The specials card in the middle of the table flopped over pathetically. "I'm not here to have sex with you! You said you wanted to _talk_ to me, and I thought maybe—"

"Yeah, we should talk. We're talking, aren't we?"

"Fine, yeah, let's talk and eat some pasta. Then after dinner, what? We'll do it? That's great. Then you'll really respect me, I'm sure, I bet that'll make me an enticing prospect. Then what?"

"What do you mean, then what?"

"Well, then what happens? When do I get what _I_ want?"

Stan frowned. "Well, maybe I had this wrong," he said, "but I was pretty sure what you wanted was to have sex with me."

The words sounded so hard to Kyle. He felt as if someone had socked him in the gut.

"Are you okay?" Stan asked.

Kyle nodded. He realized that, well, _yeah_, that _was_ what he'd wanted all along — to have sex with Stan. He thought about it so much, sometimes in such ripe detail, that the entire concept seemed to have been stripped of any meaning.

"Yeah," he gasped, seizing the pint of beer that their waitress was setting in front of him before it had ever reached the table. "I do want that." He took an enormous gulp, watched Stan carefully, set his glass down, wiped his mouth. Suddenly he regretted doing something so inelegant, but Stan was just peering at Kyle from over his glass.

"Okay, good," Stan said, before taking a sip. "Whatever."

"No, not whatever!" Kyle now felt very thirsty. "If we do it, what happens?"

"I don't know what you mean, what happens?"

"Do we just roll over and get up and go back to being best friends?" Kyle took another gulp of his beer, for courage. "That's not what I want. Stanley, _fuck_, you're my best friend. Clearly I want you. So afterward, do we date? That's what I want, Stanley. _I want a boyfriend_."

"Why don't we just try it? And see what happens?"

"Because we're best friends! What if — what if it ruins everything?"

"We have to be honest with each other," Stan said. "We don't feel about each other how best friends should."

"Yes we do!" Kyle cried. "Stanley, listen. That's insane. You mean more to me than anyone alive, anyone I know, and that includes my immediate family. You mean _everything_ to me."

"I'm not debating that, and I'm sure you know that I feel the same way."

"Actually, I don't know that. I — well, I haven't been sure for the longest time that you even _like_ me."

"Well, it's true, there's a lot about you I don't like so much right now. But there's no way to get around the fact that I care about you so much more than I want to."

Kyle gasped. "I don't even know what to say."

"Don't say anything."

"I feel like I _have_ to!"

Stan laughed. "Just, let's be honest here, dude. You want me, I want you. We _love_ each other. Thoroughly. It's retarded to deny that. But the things I want from you, they're not things I'd ever want from my best friend. In fact, I'm not certain I even _want_ a best friend. Because I'm not, you know, 12 years old."

Kyle felt his sinuses beginning to hurt. He had to bite his lip to stop tears from starting—not so much from sadness, but from utter confusion. He reached for his beer and realized that it was empty. "But I thought—"

"I care about you. _Deeply_. But I'm a guy, dude, and — I don't know, I think the sexual tension between us has reached its boiling point. Are you going to let me boil over, or not? There's only so many girls I can fuck and pretend it's you."

Whimpering, Kyle grabbed his water goblet and chugged about half of it in 10 seconds. Then he swallowed some down the wrong pipe, and started choking. Not choking, really — hacking. It was, of course, at this point that their bread sticks arrived.

"Here you go," their waitress said amiably. "You just let me know if you need some more of those. Is he — is he okay?" She nudged an elbow in Kyle's general direction.

"He'll be fine," Stan replied. "I think he's just excited. I think he needs another drink, though. Maybe a glass of white wine or something?"

Kyle tried to protest this in between coughs: "Don't … talk about me … like I'm not … here!"

"Yeah, he's great," Stan told their waitress. She shrugged and walked away; Stan began slapping Kyle on the back.

"Not helping!" Kyle got up, tossing his napkin in his chair, and ran to the bathroom, shoving aside an old woman and several different waiters. Once there, he bent over and coughed until he felt his tonsils were going to fall out. Then he splashed cold water on his face, washed his hands, and went back to the table, where a glass of wine was waiting for him next to Stan's beer.

"Cheers," Stan said, raising his glass.

"Sure," Kyle agreed, meeting Stan's drink with his own in a half-hearted _clink_. He sipped it — it was bitter, almost acidic. Kyle didn't know a thing about wine, let alone enough to call himself an expert, but he could tell that this wasn't exactly good. Still, booze was booze, and he figured whether or not he was going to bed with Stan, he might as well get as shitfaced as possible, so long as Randy Marsh was going to pay for it. This couldn't be any less horrible than it already was, he figured.

"Is she even going to take our order?" Kyle asked, thoroughly disgusted.

"I ordered for you," Stan said.

"You _what? Jesus Christ_, what are you even doing?"

"Oh, you never eat anything anyway. I got you some pasta."

"What kind?"

"Just capellini," said Stan. "With, like, tomatoes."

"Tomato sauce?"

"No." Stan shrugged. "Not really. Just tomatoes."

Kyle reached for his wine. He had no problems with capellini. He had barely read the menu, though, so it was just as well that Stan had ordered him the blandest-sounding thing. After guzzling some wine Kyle reached for a bread stick, and nibbled it slowly while he watched Stan eat salad. "Is that good?" he finally asked.

"Yeah, pretty good. You want some?" Stan pointed to the clear plastic salad bowl, shreds of carrot and iceberg clinging to the sides.

"No, I'm cool," said Kyle, thinking of the salad he hadn't eaten at lunch. "Or maybe just a little."

Stan served him a neat pile of salad with one wedge of tomato via plastic tongs. Kyle looked at his food, unable to help grinning. Stan had served him! It was so … Kyle wasn't sure, so he grasped at his wine glass, only to learn that he'd drunk the whole thing.

"That was disgusting," he announced. "Can we get a bottle?"

Stan smiled at him. "Sure. Anything you want." He reached across the table, taking Kyle's hand. Kyle looked up at him, and smiled back. "Kyle," Stan breathed. "I'm not good at this."

"Good at what?"

"I've never had a girlfriend."

"_I've_ never had a girlfriend," Kyle repeated.

"Or a boyfriend."

"Well," said Kyle, "you're not gay and you get a lot of girls, so, so — I _guess_ that makes sense, maybe I wouldn't want a girlfriend either. But I don't know. All I know is that you're straight, and you want to have sex with me, but if we do it I don't know what happens next."

"Well, fine," Stan replied. "Look, I don't know that we have to know, or even _should_ know, what happens when it's over. I'm scared too, okay?"

"Scared of what?"

"Well, you keep saying, 'You're straight, you're straight' to me, like—"

"Like what?" Kyle asked. "You are."

"I've never said that. You're the one who's always saying that."

"Because you are!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "I'm getting you drunk at an Olive Garden while I proposition you. _Clearly_ I'm not."

Kyle didn't _think_ he was drunk, but the thought was enough to make him grab his wine glass again. Sadly, it was still empty. "But you sleep with girls! A lot!"

"Well, sure, but—"

"But _what_?"

Stan sighed. He leaned back in his chair. "Kyle, one by one, every guy in our grade has turned gay."

"Clyde's not gay," Kyle snapped. "Or Tweek, or Cartman, or—"

"Or me?" Stan smiled. "Look, okay, you're clearly trying to protect yourself, because if I'm totally straight I can't reject you. I can't tell you if I'm gay. I don't know if I am. I don't really think about it a lot. But I do like you. Can't we please just—"

Stan was interrupted by their waitress delivering their meals, Kyle's capellini and Stan's entrée as well. He ordered a bottle of the white house wine Kyle had been drinking, and the waitress ran off to fetch it for him.

She was too enthusiastic for Kyle's liking, and he was glad to see her go.

"What is that?" Kyle asked, pointing at Stan's dish.

"This is called 'Tour of Italy,' " Stan said. "It's a sampler."

"Are you ever afraid your heart is going to explode from eating so much?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "I can't build muscle if I don't eat a lot," he said. "And then I can't be good at football. And then I can't protect you from assholes like Cartman. Of course, you never let me. But I could. You know, if you wanted that."

Kyle's cheeks flushed.

"Do you want a bite?"

Kyle took his fork and stabbed a piece of chicken parmesan that Stan had cut. He chewed it slowly.

"Like that?" Stan asked.

"Not really," Kyle said, his mouth full. He was too drunk to notice. "But, kinda."

XXX

By the time they were done eating, Kyle was too inebriated to remember all of his reservations about hooking up. Stan had to guide him back to the car, not because Kyle couldn't walk, but because Kyle was in that drunken place where random things and tangents kept catching his attention, distracting him from where he was going. Stan was chivalrous about it, opening the door and helping Kyle buckle his seat belt.

They did not talk on the car ride home so much as Kyle babbled about what was on his mind, namely the Olive Garden ("They're so fucking nice to you to give you all that cheap wine," he marveled) and Frank Granger: "That guy is such a douche. Me and Wendy are gonna give it to him, I swear to god. He's got like a day to get out of town and then he's gonna be sorry he ever met me. It's bad enough that because of him Cartman's waddling around town in fucking skinny jeans—"

"Who's Frank Granger?" Stan asked.

Kyle groaned. "That homophobic douchebag from Duke."

"Oh, that guy." Stan shrugged as he zoomed down the highway. "I think sometimes you carry this shit too far. Besides, it's pretty fucked up to have an entire class of gay dudes. Maybe it would be interesting to figure out why. Wouldn't you say?"

"You don't get it. You're strai — well, you don't get it."

"Fine. Maybe I don't." Stan didn't seem bothered by this.

It wasn't a long drive home, but at the off-ramp Kyle asked Stan not to take him back to his house. "I can't go home," he said. "I left my car somewhere else and I wanna go home with you." He tried to reach over and get Stan to kiss him, but Stan was driving, focusing extra hard on the road so as not to get them killed while he was still tipsy from dinner.

"You should probably go home," Stan said.

"But I left my phone in the car and I didn't pick up Ike. Like I disappeared! I'm gonna be in so much trouble. If you want me, you'd better take me back to your place."

So Stan pulled up in front of his own house, sliding the car into park. It was not very late, but the streets of South Park were empty, quiet and placid. Crickets chirped in the distance, signaling spring. Kyle recalled that it would be his birthday soon. He'd be 17, and for the first time ever, there was a possibility he could look forward to having a boyfriend on his birthday, to things like birthday sex and maybe intimate presents, maybe another mix tape, maybe flowers on his desk in the morning. Kyle thought of Craig's calla lilies, and how he'd smashed them to little bits. Kyle didn't think he'd ever want flowers again, unless they came from Stan. But Stan had said he was bad at this, that he'd never had a girlfriend.

Kyle wondered: "Have you ever given a girl flowers?" he asked.

"No." Stan shut off the engine, and turned off the lights. Now it was dark in the car, the only lights nearby were dim, coming from the insides of Stan's house, of neighbors' houses. "Never. Why?"

"No reason." Kyle could barely make out the line of Stan's lips and nose, his profile in the dark. South Park had no streetlamps.

"If you come inside my mom's gonna catch you," Stan said. "They talk, you know, our parents. All our parents, I mean, but especially my parents and your parents. I _almost _never bring girls home, I never talk to my parents, not ever, but — if I bring you in there, they're gonna know."

"Like I give a fuck who knows. My mother told the entire town I was gay when I was 12 years old. Do you care if they know?"

"You mean, if I care if they know I'm bringing someone home? You're my best friend, but they can make assumptions, like my dad gave me his car and his credit card because I said I was going on a date. So, yeah, I do think if we go in there they'll know. And what I mean is, my mom will totally tattle on you. To your mom, I mean." Stan unbuckled his restraint and slid down in his seat. "God, I'm kinda drunker than I thought I was."

"That's good, that's super good," said Kyle, doing the same. He turned and said to Stan in a whisper that became increasingly louder, "I don't care if my mom knows. So what, so she'll ground me, fuck her. I'm going to be 17, I can do whatever the fuck I want. At least she'll know I disappeared for a good reason, that I got what I want."

Stan reached over, brushing his fingers against Kyle's lips. "What do you want?" he asked.

Kyle felt his cock thicken from half-hard to fully erect. He wondered if Stan's was hard, too, if he was going to get to see it, or if he should play very coy. He was no good at this. He almost choked. "I want you to tell me what I want," he breathed.

Stan's fingers moved down Kyle's chin, his neck, to the collar of his peacoat, to his clavicle. "You want me to fuck you in the back seat of this car," he said, grabbing Kyle's hand and planting it on the inside of his thigh, watching Kyle's eyes widen as Stan pressed his palm against a generous erection. "You want this in you, Kyle, yes you do."

"Yeah, I do. Do you want to be in me?"

"_Fuck_, yes, can't you feel how much?"

Kyle nodded.

"You want to let me in. You want me to press you against the back of the driver's seat and fuck your little brains out."

"Oh, _god_, Stanley." Kyle was trembling, trying hard not to grin. He didn't think it was very seductive to grin, but he could barely help it. He'd never felt happier, more optimistic in his life. "Do you think I'm cute?" he asked, then immediately regretted it.

"I think you're so fucking hot," Stan said, reaching over to unbutton Kyle's shirt. "Your ass is so beautiful, Kyle, I can't fucking help myself. When I'm with a girl and I'm pushing into her I have my eyes closed and I think about how fucking wrong it is to want my best friend _so hard_, but I'm pretending she's you, I'm pretending I'm sinking into that completely perfect ass. I'm so happy you didn't give that ass to Craig, dude. I deserve it, I know I do. I know you want to give it to me."

Kyle knew his heart was beating faster than it ever had before. He was so drunk on a combination of shitty wine and lust and flattery that he had no idea what to say. "Do you think it's like a pin cushion?" he managed to ask.

"I think it's the sweetest thing I've ever seen in my life," Stan said, "and if you don't give it to me I'm going to have to take it."

The words were so incredibly territorial that Kyle found them arousing. He felt like his dick was harder than it had ever been. Stan was kissing him on the mouth, sloppily, not at all like the one behind the liquor store, with half of Park Country's intramural football team watching. This one was slow, and deep, and Kyle kept trying to gasp or moan around Stan's tongue. Stan wasn't a suave kisser like Craig, and his mouth tasted like marinara sauce and beer, but Kyle really didn't mind — he found it wonderful. He wondered if he'd ever eat chicken parmesan again without coming in his pants.

Stan kissed down the column of Kyle's neck, shoving the peacoat off his shoulders, sucking so hard Kyle could feel teeth on his neck, thought he could imagine the blood vessels bursting. Kyle tried to reach for Stan's fly, groping for the zipper. He realized it was a button fly, and he blushed, but the heat in his cheeks and the heat on his neck were indistinguishable. Kyle gave up trying to get Stan's fly open after one button, after Stan had broken open his shirt from the collar down and began to suck at one of Kyle's nipples, the left one, which hardened into a tight knot. He was panting so hard, trying to shift his hips against Stan's flank or the car seat, whichever was nearer, gasping, "Stanley, _Stanley_." Then Stan bit down, catching Kyle's nipple between his incisors, at the same moment he finally managed to snake a hand into Kyle's jeans and below his underwear, brushing against the hair at the base of Kyle's cock.

"Stan!" Kyle shocked himself, hands flying to his mouth.

Stan raised his head, wiping spit from his lips. "Was that okay?" he asked.

"What? Fuck, it was more than okay! Why'd you stop?"

"I don't know." Stan reached out with the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the saliva off of Kyle's chest, sending chills up Kyle's spine. "You haven't called me that in years."

"Did I kill the mood?"

"No, no." Stan sat back in the driver's seat. "Let's get in the back. I want to fuck you."

"Stan_ley_—"

"You want it, dude, don't get scared. I just had my hand down your pants. You're probably fucking dripping for me."

Shifting, Kyle sighed. He was dripping. He could feel how incredibly aroused he was, and every time he shifted he felt the tip of his cock smear against the fabric of his briefs.

"I'm not scared."

"Then let's—"

"But I can't have sex with you." Kyle leaned his head against the window, staring across the dark at Stan, rubbing his erection through his jeans, slowly, with a light touch — stoking the fire, almost. He could almost make out Stan's lips tensing.

Stan sighed. He crossed his arms, and put one foot, his left, up on his seat. It was too dark to make out, but Kyle wanted this to be Stan's way of showing off, his cock hard and obvious through his pants at this angle. "Is this just what you do? You tease guys like this all the time?"

"No," Kyle wanted to say, "I'm not like that." Instead, he said, "Right, because fucking sluts drunkenly, _fucking your friends_, that's way better. Wendy said you gave her Chlamydia."

"Maybe I did," said Stan. "I don't have it _anymore_."

"Right, who knows what you have now."

"Well, the _last_ person I was with was Bebe, and she's not on the pill and she didn't have her diaphragm because she'd left it in her gym locker. So we used a condom. Is that good enough?"

Kyle wasn't sure. "I don't want you to fuck me until you have a clean bill of health," he said.

"Christ, I do! Why are you doing this? Why are you making this into a problem when it isn't?"

"It is!" Kyle shouted. Then, in a quiet voice, he added, "Because I don't want you to take advantage of me. Because I'm scared."

"You said you weren't scared to do this with me!"

"I'm not scared to do it with you." Kyle realized he had stopped rubbing his dick altogether, and he crossed his arms. He wondered if his cock would shrink back to normal, or if he would go to bed hard and end up coming in his sheets while he slept. Probably not, he figured, because that would mean he'd gone home, and going home would mean getting in serious trouble with his parents — and he wouldn't even have anything to show for it. He found these ideas completely un-erotic. "I'm scared of what happens after we do it."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it's not! Do you ever think about the people you bone? I mean, honestly?"

"Yeah, sometimes," said Stan. "But it depends on who they are. You know who _you_ are, Kyle, don't you?"

Kyle shook his head.

"You're the most important person in my life." The sentiment in Stan's voice made Kyle's dick throb. "Why do you think I'm just going to, like, throw you out when we're done?"

"Because even if things go fine and I get what I want — I mean, if we start _dating_," Kyle clarified, "even if all that happens, well — relationships don't last forever. I learned that recently. So, so if, I mean, _when _things _do_ fall apart between us…" Kyle sighed. "I can't bear the idea of losing you. It's worse than losing a boyfriend. If we do this, we start that process. It might last until we come in this car tonight or maybe we'll stay together for years and one of us dies, but you have to know that it ends at some point."

Stan leaned forward, so that some of the thin light from the windows of his house barely illuminated his features, and Kyle saw that he was smiling, and it was sweet, not lecherous or devious or self-satisfied or gullible, not like Craig or Cartman or Kenny or even Butters, or anyone else Kyle knew. It was just sweet, and incredibly Stan-like. "But we already started it," he said. "I feel like we're at the edge of a cliff, okay? Maybe we'll fall off if we stand here long enough, but we're so busy looking behind ourselves that if we walk away now, we won't even get to enjoy the view."

"That's a shitty metaphor." Kyle knew it was a simile, but he also knew Stan wouldn't care about the distinction.

"Kyle, this is life. Can't we please, please just have this? What else are you going to do, go home?"

At least Kyle knew he didn't want _that_. "I'm a virgin," he said, not sure if that was relevant, but he felt like he should mention it.

"Well, I'm a gay virgin."

"That's not the same, you've still had _sex_."

"I've heard your blow jobs are legendary," Stan said.

It made Kyle blush. "People tell me. But when we were breaking up, Craig said I was only okay."

Stan leaned back, and Kyle could no longer make out the look on his face. He wished he could. "How the fuck would Craig know?"

"Craig is legendary."

"If we're gonna do this, I don't want to hear anything else about Craig. I hate that guy."

Kyle didn't quite know what to say. "He was my friend," he murmured, rubbing his hands together. "Maybe I shouldn't have been with him, maybe _that_ was a bad idea, but I've been so lonely, Stan, I felt so disconnected from you, sitting at that other table with Cartman, and I was stuck with Craig."

"You could have come and sit next to me at any time."

"He kept telling me I was too good for you, that you were a dick for leading me on when I clearly liked you. He doesn't like you much, either. I guess I'm glad for that. I'd rather be the axis of affection than stuck in a love triangle."

For a moment, there was silence. Kyle could hear Stan breathing, his inhales a little deeper than normal, his lungs a bit less effective. Then he said, "Well, let's go inside, if we're going," and Kyle happily obliged, following him.

Stan's parents were in bed, or at least not in the living room when they came in, creeping up the stairs. In Stan's bedroom, Kyle climbed into his sheets, shedding his jacket, throwing it on the floor.

Stan sat next to him, putting a hand on Kyle's hip, rubbing circles with his thumb. "I'm happy we did this, you know, whatever goes down."

Kyle was no longer drunk, but he didn't really feel sober, either. His stomach churned, forcing him up on his knees. Stan's fingers never left his side as they closed together, resuming their last kiss from the front seat of the car as if it hadn't even ended, like they'd never stopped to talk or even walk in the house. The lights were on (though Stan's bedroom light was a weak incandescent floor lamp) and though they were now just begging to be found out by Stan's inquisitive parents, Kyle felt more comfortable on the bed, more comfortable having said the things he'd said.

While Stan gnawed at Kyle's bottom lip, his teeth dragging against the wound that Cartman had given him some time ago, now mostly healed, he had managed to open Kyle's shirt, pawing at his chest. His nipples were hard again; he was hard again, and he now felt how hard Stan was, too. This time, a bit less drunk and at a better angle, he was able to tear open Stan's fly, feel the weight of Stan's dick in his hands. Kyle had a lot of dicks in his head he might have compared it to, but that didn't matter, because it was Stan's. Kyle pushed him away, gently.

"Have you ever seen a cock?" he asked.

Stan shook his head. "Not other than mine or my dad's," he said. "Or my uncle's." He laughed when Kyle made a shocked face at this. "Not, like — not like I was molested or something. I mean, you know, at baseball games when I was a kid. At the urinals or whatever. But, _no_, I guess that's the answer you're looking for."

Kyle was satisfied with this, and he opened up his pants, sliding his jeans and briefs to his knees. "Here," he said, taking one of Stan's hands and bringing it to his dick. "You made me hard like this."

"I did this?"

"Yeah." Kyle groaned when Stan touched him, cupping Kyle's balls; then, with Kyle's dick in hand, he reached back for the curve of Kyle's ass, spreading out his fingers, clutching, sighing.

"Oh my god," Stan breathed. "It's so fucking perfect."

"It's not perfect," Kyle said, although his cock was leaking at Stan's words, straining more at Stan's reaction than his actions — although it was difficult to tell. "It's too big. I know it's too big."

"It's just big enough," Stan said. "It's like a chick's."

"I find that vaguely insulting," Kyle said, although he was practically choking at how hot he found the idea, how wrong it was.

"How do I bring you off?" Stan asked. "You're so fucking hot, Kyle. I need to get you off. I don't even care if you let me fuck you, I just need to see you come, I need to make you come."

"Okay." Kyle pulled at Stan's dick, stroking it, rubbing it between his hands. "If you rub me off I'll blow you. I'll take you in my mouth, you can have one of my legendary blow jobs. They're fucking amazing. Craig's a fucking moron, and Kenny can dis me all he fucking wants, but I've made him come _twice_, like my mouth was already sticky with his come the second time I did it." Kyle blushed, feeling like this was too much, like he was crossing some line, either with TMI, or because while this story was true, it had been kind of a struggle — and it had much more to do with Kenny's stamina than Kyle's abilities, anyway. But Stan wasn't going to think critically enough about the details, and this knowledge was obviously turning him on more.

Stan reached over for something on the floor; it turned out to be a small pot of Vaseline.

"What's that for?" Kyle asked.

"What do you think?" Stan took a glob in his hands, spreading it together like he was scrubbing under the faucet. He was clearly a beginner at this, fumbling a bit while he stroked Kyle, dropping it a couple of times, reaching for Kyle's balls too often, squeezing them like he thought they were some kind of air pump, like maybe Kyle would over-inflate and then just explode. He didn't reach for Kyle's ass at all, which was disappointing; Kyle wanted a finger, maybe even two, even if it was just to rub his hole _a little_, hinting at things to come later. He thought about reaching back himself, fingering himself through Stan's clumsy handjob. It was Stan's talking that brought Kyle off in the end, telling him how hot he was, how much Stan was looking forward to fucking him in the future. "I'll pound you so fucking hard you won't be able to walk, I'll have to fucking carry you to school, and everyone will fucking know that I broke your fat ass when I popped your fucking cherry," he said. "You'll be all broken in on my dick, Kyle, you'll be useless to anyone else." That was what did it, not even so much _what_ Stan was saying, just the way he was saying it, growling it, like he fucking meant it. Kyle came languidly, the first bit getting on Stan's stomach, dripping down to his cock, but the rest dropped onto Stan's sheets, as Kyle began to feel sorrowful, content, and relived, all at the same time.

"Thanks," he said when it was over, kissing Stan's cheek. "That was really nice. Sorry I, um, came on your dick."

"That's okay," Stan said heavily, breathing deep. He was still aroused, his cock bent up enticingly. "You're just going to have to lick it up, I guess."

Kyle was happy to oblige. That night, he went to sleep with Stan's arms around his waist, in Stan's bed, reliving the strained gasps that Stan had made while Kyle nipped gently at his erection. All the doubt and fear he'd had at dinner, or in the car, or in Kenny's bedroom, or in Craig's, or when his mother had lectured him at the kitchen table, or about Frank or even the future — it all evaporated. He knew he'd remember it later, but for the moment, he fell into a deep slumber knowing that Stan was exhausted and spent, and that Kyle was the one who had the proof of it crusting in the corners of his mouth, and inside of him.

XXX

Kyle spent his birthday that year with Sgt. Harrison Yates, in the interrogation room of the Park County police headquarters, drinking endless cups of coffee. At first Kyle didn't really know what he was doing there, just that Stan had come to leave him a birthday present, and ask if he could drive Kyle to school. Kyle wanted Stan to drive him to school, very badly, but he was grounded and his mother insisted that she was going to drive Kyle, and she didn't care if it was his birthday. But she wasn't cruel enough to deny Stan and Kyle the chance to talk for a few minutes on the stoop, Kyle leaning on the doorframe, blushing. It happened to be the first day of the year for good T-shirt weather, and Kyle stood there bitching about his mom, or his upcoming Latin final, or his reluctance about prom — anything, really, so long as he could keep staring at Stan's forearms, lean and hairy. Kyle had half a mind to ask Stan if he could swoon into his arms, if Stan would catch him, if he'd carry him inside and lay him on the couch.

But then two cops appeared, and asked if Kyle wouldn't mind coming down to the station for some questions. Sheila Broflovski could hardly argue with _that_. And Kyle was pleased to be anywhere other than school, really.

And so Yates was grilling him about Frank Granger, who was last seen four days previous, washing his hands in a the men's bathroom at Harbucks. "They say he spent a lot of time with you," Yates said, tapping the eraser of his pencil against a notepad.

"Who's they?" Kyle asked. He wondered why this was a one-on-one session. Did that mean they were only asking him these questions for the sake of thoroughness, or—

"We've talked to some people. Your high school principal recalls setting you guys up specifically to chat. Harbucks staff recall you coming in to talk to him on several occasions. A kid named Eric Cartman swears you guys were close."

"Oh, definitely take his word for it," Kyle said sarcastically. "He's a violent psychopath who beat me up earlier in the year, did you know? My lip is _still_ not fully healed, actually. See?" Kyle stretched his mouth as far as it would go, pointing at the wound.

Yates rolled his eyes. "Well, is he wrong?"

Kyle sat back in his seat. "Well, _no_, I mean, I did spend some time with Frank—"

"So, relax, kid. Geez, we're just trying to get some information on a missing person."

"I don't know where he went," said Kyle. "But I told him his study was bullshit. I think he was starting to figure it out. He probably, you, know, just left town."

"Don't think so. His car's still parked outside of Harbucks. And we're got no Frank Grangers on any flights from Denver to Raleigh-Durham."

"Academics are poor. I bet he took the bus."

"Trust me," said Yates. "He's gone."

"That's pretty weird."

"Well, not that weird. People disappear all the time from Park Country, and especially from South Park. They usually turn up a few days later, claiming to have had weird dreams. And sometimes they just turn up again, and no one remembers they were gone at all."

Kyle thought about Kenny and his deaths, and how a long, long time ago, his brother had been taken by alien visitors. Kyle was hardly on speaking terms with either of them; he doubted Kenny would ever talk to him again, and Ike was grounded for having let Kyle drive off from the JCC, for not calling their parents immediately. Kyle knew that would pass, that Ike was young and forgiving and always had been. Ike might blame Kyle for being punished now, but he was only grounded through next week. Kyle knew that if either of them ever disappeared, he'd miss them forever. His life would never be the same.

He doubted anyone would be missing Frank Granger.

"So you think Frank was abducted by aliens?" Kyle asked, half-hoping Yates said that yes, he totally did.

"We're got word that some of his colleagues in the academic world aren't going to mind his disappearance much. We talked to a woman who basically wanted him dead. The organization that issued the grant that brought him here contacted us. Apparently he missed a big check-in deadline, or something? And his department at Duke's not happy. Apparently if he doesn't show up, they have to find someone else to teach Sociology 101 over a summer session." Yates shrugged. "But the last thing I need is Duke University breathing down my neck from 2,000 miles away. So if you know anything, kid, you'd better get talking. I mean, tell me everything. _Anything._ If we don't find this guy, I'm gonna have to do a shitload of paperwork."

"I guess maybe I'd talk to some gay advocacy groups?" Kyle suggested. "The nature of his research was — well, he was trying to isolate the cause of homosexuality. And I think _some people_ might be touchy about that."

"So why'd be come _here_?"

"Because almost every boy in my class is," Kyle said. "Gay, I mean."

"How'd he find out about you guys?"

"I don't know."

"Did he figure anything out?"

"Well, I don't think so," said Kyle. "I thought what he was doing was pretty despicable."

"So that's why you stopped collaborating with him," said Yates, not really asking a question. "_You_ were touchy about what he was doing."

"Yes." Kyle fingers clenched against his thighs. He reached for his paper cup of police station coffee.

"Why, do you disagree with his findings?"

"As far as I know, he didn't have any findings." Kyle was trembling. "Why do you know something? Did you find something?"

"Not yet. We need a warrant to get into his place, get his notebooks. We're still questioning, as you can see. He was trying to find out the cause of homosexuality, huh? That's fucked up. What do you think?"

"Me? What do I think? You mean, about what causes homosexuality?"

Yates nodded.

"Ugh, I don't know. Hormonal fluctuations in the womb? Watching too many cartoons? Having an overbearing mother? Having another dude's ass sewn to your face? All that shit together? Who knows? I don't even want to know. Like I said."

"Well, so why South Park?"

"Dude, it's South Park!" Kyle was surprised at how quickly he answered. He blushed, and said in quieter voice, "Looking for answers here is pointless."

"Yeah," said Yates, scribbling it all on a notepad. "Sometimes I know what you mean."

Kyle glanced at the tape recorder, and wished he hadn't said some of those things. Especially that thing about Cartman.

When Kyle was done it was almost 2 p.m. He'd still be in school if he'd gone that day, and he wondered if his mother would pick him up and make him go to his last class, gym. Kyle hated gym. He hated the whole enterprise of getting undressed and running around pointlessly for 30 minutes, playing kickball or, actually, it occurred to Kyle that they'd been doing a unit on pull-ups. Kyle couldn't do a pull-up.

But if he went to school, Stan would be there; it would be his only chance to see Stan for the rest of the day, or talk to him at all. Kyle was grounded, so grounded, that his mother had taken away his computer, took away his cell phone when he got into the house, couldn't watch TV, couldn't even sit in his room by himself with the door closed. His window was now bolted shut, and his father had the key. "We're only doing this to get you to focus," his father had said. "Finish the school year without incident and we'll give you back some of these privileges." Kyle had responded to them about as maturely as possible — he'd screamed, "I fucking hate you!" and run upstairs, buried his head under his pillow and cried. After about 10 minutes he was just crying out of embarrassment, at what a fucking loser he was.

He just wanted to see Stan. Stan had asked him to prom, the morning after their date at the Olive Garden. Kyle had immediately said, "God, _yes_," and then instantly regretted it; he wanted nothing to do with dances, with being seen by other people. He didn't want people talking about him, or to him: "Aren't you dating Stan Marsh?" all the time, in the halls of SPHS. Couldn't they just think it to themselves? Then Kyle's mother had said, "You're not going to prom. Are you crazy?" and, "If Stanley loves you, he'll wait until you're no longer punished to have a relationship. He's a good boy. I'm sure he can wait until summer at least." Kyle suddenly wanted to go to prom so badly, he could hardly stand it. He had all weekend long to brood about it.

At least at lunches Kyle got to sit with Stan, who would come sit with him at his table, shooting death stares at Craig. Kyle hoped Craig thought they were fucking. They didn't, they hadn't, there was no time or place — but Craig didn't have to know that. Kyle even realized that Craig had been nice to him, had never been anything but decent. But somehow he just wanted Craig to see how Stan squeezed Kyle's thigh under the table, how Stan let Kyle eat his fries without even asking. Craig didn't seem to be paying attention. Kyle hoped he was looking away in disgust.

Outside of the police station, Kyle took out his phone. He had to call his mother, to tell her to come pick him up. He wished he could walk home, but it was a bit too far, more centrally located for the entire country. Instead of dialing the house, though, he found himself texting Wendy: _why'd you let cartman talk to the police?_

He waited. He sat down on a bench. She was in school. Why'd he waste his time texting her? But a moment later, he got a response.

_Because he wanted to. He was talking to Frank so it makes sense? Don't worry, Eric won't incriminate you. You didn't do anything wrong._

He wrote back: _I always feel I've done something wrong. Maybe for the first time it's not paranoia_.

She replied, _Frank's gone, he can't bother you. And Eric won't either. I've made sure of it. Relax_. _I'm in ceramics, critique time. Gtg._

Kyle snapped his phone shut. He sat there for a moment, watching the buds on the trees across the street shake in the breeze. Then his phone signaled another new message.

_And make sure to delete these messages!_

He was glad she'd reminded him.

XXX

On the last day of school, Butters sat outside by himself. It was a half day, a mere formality, an awards ceremony in the morning followed by yearbook signing. Butters had won two awards, actually, for general academic distinction and his performance in Painting and Drawing, for a small canvas that his teacher had hung up in her classroom. It was a portrait of Eric, sort of abstract, the bulbous form of his figure mostly obscured by the technique, deconstructed into a riot of neons. Butters thought it was hideous, actually, and couldn't bear to look at it anymore, so representative it was of Eric to him. So he sat on a bench outside of the school, his certificates shoved haphazardly into his yearbook, which remained blank on the inside folds, uninscribed. He couldn't even bear to put his name in it, didn't care if he lost it. He'd forgotten he'd even painted that thing until they'd announced it in the assembly. But the whole thing just sent him over the edge. He couldn't be in there anymore, watching Eric canoodle with _her_. He couldn't deal with it.

Some kids had come and gone, getting into their cars or on their bikes and flying off for the summer. Butters felt immobilized; he couldn't move. He could go home, but to what? _For_ what? To his parents? The thought would make him laugh if he weren't so miserable. He just sat there staring at the ground. He was wearing fuchsia patent Doc Martens and a pair of very short cut-offs, but he hoped he would catch no one's attention.

But, of course not: "Butters, _dude_."

Butters looked to see who it was. It was Craig Tucker and Kenny McCormick, obviously coming out to smoke. Kenny had a pack in one hand and another at his lips. Craig was holding a lighter — and a flask.

"You look like shit," Craig said, handing Butters the flask. Butters took it, and put it in his lap. Craig rolled his eyes at him, but Butters wasn't really sure why Craig was giving it to him. "That's Jack," he said, pointing at Butters crotch. "Take a swig."

"What's wrong?" Kenny asked, cigarette between his lips.

"Everything's horrible," Butters said. He was not drinking from the flask. Yet.

"Aw, no, dude, school's over." Kenny paused while Craig reached over to light his cigarette, then they swapped. Butters looked up Kenny, how beautiful he was, how gracefully he smoked, his fingers long and controlled, not like Eric's.

Butters moaned, and put his head in his hands.

"Butters, no, dude." Kenny sat next to him. He already smelled like bourbon, mingling with smoke. "I know, the last day, it's rough. I saw your painting, though, dude. It's good. I really liked it. Neon's pretty sick."

"Yeah," Craig agreed. "It's like, almost ironic. Kind of awesome. This school's such a shithole. It's so much better than all those fruity still lifes in the art department. I've got a photo class next year, so maybe it'll inspire me or something."

"Looking for inspiration?" Kenny asked.

"I think I could go off of this train wreck of a semester for a while, actually," Craig confessed. "I feel like I've been wandering in the desert by myself for 39 years."

"Nope," said Kenny. "Only three. Seems like a common feeling, though. I feel the same. You okay, Butters? Junior year's hard. But it's done."

Butters looked up. "It's a portrait of Eric," he said.

"Oh, okay." Craig shrugged. Smoke curled at his nostrils artfully. Butters was not sure if he'd ever seen Craig without a hat, but of course, it was no longer the right kind of weather. His hair looked artful, messy in a calculated way, like Craig had gotten up at 4 a.m. and sculpted it. "Well, dude, it's awesome. I really like it. I'd rather have that than, like, a math award." He paused to take another inhale. "I didn't win any awards, though," he said, by way of clarification.

Kenny had, though. He'd picked up honors for his performance in Spanish and, to everyone's surprise, was now second in their class rank, trailing Wendy Testaburger. Butters was not surprised. Kenny had always worked hard.

"Butters, seriously, you're freaking me out," Kenny said.

"Eric, um." Butters curled up tighter. The flask dropped down to the ground with a thud. "He left me." His yearbook slipped from his hands as he balled up on the bench, but Butters didn't care. He hoped his awards fell out and blew away.

"Aw, come on. C'mere." Kenny wrapped around Butters with one arm, holding his half-burned cigarette aloft in his other hand.

Craig bent down to pick up the flask, unscrewing the top. "It's gonna be okay, Butters. He's _really_ a fucking dickhead. I wouldn't worry about it."

"How could I be so fucking stupid?" Butters asked. He was crying now, his words hoarse. "Everyone told me, everyone told me but I didn't care, I just liked him so much. How could I not know? I'm so fucking stupid!"

Craig sat down next to Butters, handing him the flask. "Drink this," he said softly, holding it under Butters' nose. Butters took the thing, tentatively, but put it to his lips.

"Okay, okay." Kenny was rubbing his back. "It's all right. Us girls gotta stick together. Shhh, we got you. _We got you_. He's the worst fucking thing in this town, Butters. He always has been."

"Then why did I like him?" Butters cried.

"Something about people's shittiness is attractive sometimes," Craig said. "Trust me, I _know_. That can be a thing. Don't take it so hard."

"But I love him!"

"I know," said Craig. "I know, I know."

"It's gonna hurt for a while," Kenny said. "People we care about can hurt us a lot, okay? But sometimes that's good enough. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?"

"Yeah," said Craig. "Sure, I guess."

"And if does kill you, _good_. You can't kill something that's dead." Kenny took one last drag on his cigarette, and tossed it on the ground. He didn't stomp it out, just let it smolder.

"I don't even know what that means," Butters wailed.

"He means Eric can't hurt you anymore," Craig said. "You're free or whatever. That guy is such a fucking dipshit, okay? You're a beautiful person. … Ugh, fuck, listen to me, I'm saying the most retardedly sentimental, asinine shit. Fuck your big soft heart, McCormick. God, Butters, he's right, you don't want Eric anymore. You're bigger than his crap."

"No one's bigger than Eric."

"Maybe," Kenny mused.

"Wait, you mean—?" Craig flicked his cigarette to the ground.

Butters shook his head. "No, I don't know about that, I never saw it."

"We gotta get you laid," said Craig. "You'll feel better. This is, like, withdrawal."

"You could come spend the night with Chris and me," Kenny offered.

"I thought I was your third!"

"Well, _fuck_, form a goddamn _line_," said Kenny.

"Thanks, guys." Butters sniffed. "This is — this is real upstanding of you both. I don't know if I can — I think I need some time before I get back in bed. It's so touching. It really hurts."

"I know," said Kenny.

"Everyone knows," said Craig. "Life fucking sucks."

"You just let me know when you're good to go, Butters, okay? We're always here for you."

"Who, you and Craig?"

"Well, I meant me and Chris, but — yeah, why not?"

Butters rubbed at his eyes. "I think I need a cigarette," he said.

"All right," said Kenny. "That's what I like to hear."

Craig stood up and reached into his back pocket for his lighter. Kenny wriggled out his pack of Gauloises, withdrawing three and handing one each to Craig and Butters. "Welp," he said, leaning over for a light. "Seniordom awaits."

"Or something," said Craig.

"Can't wait to get outta this fucking town."

"I'll miss my parents," said Butters.

"Yeah, kinda," Kenny agreed. "But not enough to let it keep me here or something. I'm going to college."

"College seems like a bad investment," said Craig.

"What're you gonna do, then, cut hair?"

"Maybe."

For a while they just sat there smoking. Streams of people began to leave the school, heading out into the June day, the mountain air, the months of potential ahead. Soon the crowd had slowed to a steady trickle, Kenny providing cigarettes past the end of the bourbon, the three of them just sitting there, watching their classmates leave. Some paused to say goodbye; most just fled without sparing a glance.

Then Butters heard it, cringing: the sound of Eric's laughter, deep and cruel and unaware. It made him burst back into tears.

"Oh fuck," said Kenny.

Eric strutted over, and he wasn't alone. Wendy was with him, clutching the meat of his upper arm, and Stan and Kyle were trailing them. "Hey, Butters, what the fuck?" Eric asked, looking down on him. "We went over this. We're through, okay? There's no use sitting here having a little faggot pissy party about it."

"Fuck off, fat ass," said Kenny.

"Wow, Kenny, that's really useful, thanks," Cartman said. "I totally will."

"Fuck, Cartman, leave him alone." Stan was saying this. "Leave them all alone, dude. Go fuck Wendy in the back of your car or eat a burger or something."

"Fuck, I'm totally going to. But no, this is really pathetic. Butters, you gotta get over yourself. Besides, Stan, you're a fag now, so I don't see how your bias should convince me of anything."

"Eric, this is stupid, he's right," said Wendy. She was glaring at Butters, a satisfied smirk on her lips. "Let's just go. He'll get over it."

"I won't get over it!" Butters squealed. "You hurt me, Eric, you, you — you idiot!"

From behind Cartman's bulk, Kyle snorted.

"What?" Craig asked. "Butters sticking up for himself is funny to you?"

"I'm sorry, no." Kyle tried to cover his mouth, concealing his amusement. "It's not funny. I don't think it's funny."

"Yeah, you do," said Craig.

"Fine, maybe I do," said Kyle. "But come _on_, Craig, it's fucking pathetic. Cartman doesn't _like_ you, Butters. He's straight. Let it fucking go. Stop being a pathetic little sad sack and, like, go live your life."

"I find those words highly ironic," said Kenny standing up. "And Butters is a good guy, okay? And your BFF here—" he pointed to Cartman "—really treated him like shit."

"I am not BFFs with a Jew!"

"Who cares if he did?" said Kyle. "He needs to get over it."

"Yeah, you're fucking super at getting over shit, Broflovski."

"Butters _is_ fucking pathetic. Sitting here fucking crying because _Cartman_ doesn't like him? Who does that? I'd be so fucking ashamed. It's fucking sad."

"Kyle, please," Stan was saying. "They don't deserve this. Let it go."

"You should be ashamed!" Kenny screamed. "You fucking turncoat backstabbing heartless little breeder whore!"

Kyle opened his mouth to say something, when Stan stepped forward. "Kenny, I swear," he said, almost growling. "You take that fucking back."

"What? No! I'm not gonna let him treat Butters, or anyone, like this!"

"Kenny, I love you," Stan said. "_But apologize_."

"Fuck, no. You guys need to get out of here. Leave us alone."

"Apologize," said Stan.

"Fuck, _no_. Sorry I can't play out your third-grade best buddies fantasy, but he's a fucking soulless cunt and I'm sick of everyone just letting it happen."

"Kyle's a good guy," said Wendy.

"Ah, fuck, no he's not."

"Shut up, Craig," Stan spat. "Kenny, I'm giving you a chance—"

"Fuck your chances!" Craig cried, leaping up. "You're not the arbiter of fucking justice here, Marsh, you're a fucking tool and you're shoved so fucking deep up Kyle's ass that oxygen can't even get to your brain. He's a fucking slut and he'll fucking ruin you and everything you love, but sure, let him pick on Butters and Kenny, _they deserve it_, for what? For not fucking kissing Kyle's ass hard enough, not fixing his stupid problems for him? He's sucked both of their cocks, by the way, just so you know, he's sucked _everyone's_ fucking cock—"

("Not mine," Cartman objected.)

"—but he's especially sucked mine, _a lot_, so I hope when you're fucking kissing him you can goddamn _taste me_."

"We need to walk away," Wendy said. "This is ridiculous."

"Yeah, it's ridiculous that anyone gives the time of day to Kyle's insanity. He's fucking _heartless_."

Craig did not think that Stan was actually going to _hit him_, but he did, and Craig stumbled backward, a look of shock on his face.

"If you — either of you! — ever calls him a cunt or a slut or _heartless_ ever _again_," Stan seethed.

"You'll what, you'll hit me?" Craig asked, clutching his jaw. "Again? I forgot that was how breeders solved their problems."

"Don't call me a fucking breeder!" Stan shouted.

This time, Craig deflected his punch. "Okay, fine, I can take it. I've had it up the ass, so you bet I can take it." He clenched his fists, going after Stan's left side. "And I can give it," Craig gritted.

Stan backed up, wiping his lips, and the sweat from his brow. "All right, Tucker. Let's do this."

"I'm dying to! Winner take fucking all."

"I don't want you fighting over me!" Kyle shouted. "Stan, please, _I love you_, you don't have to fight Craig. I want you. Please take me home, I can't wait for my mom to pick me up, I want to go home."

"Kyle, it's fine," Stan said. "I have to do this."

"Stan!" Kyle's hands flew to his mouth as he watched Stan attack Craig with a right hook. Craig hopped away. Stan was strong, but Craig was spry.

"Jew, they're not fighting over you," said Cartman yanking him out of the way. "They're just fighting."

"This is agonizing," Kyle moaned. Eric studied him — the unhappy downward bow of his lips; the way the dusty color drained from his cheeks. His eyes widened and his nose wrinkled. His stupid ears sort of twitched, and Eric licked his lips. He might be entirely clueless when it came to reading his girlfriend, but since childhood, he knew how to recognize the involuntary, miniscule muscular shifts that preceded the great, rewarding unhappiness in Kyle Broflovski. "Why won't they stop?" he whined, pretending to cover his eyes as Craig threw another punch.

"You're a fucking conformist asshole!" Craig shouted.

"You fight like a goddamned girl!" Stan shot back, trying to duck a shot that clipped his ear. "Ow!" he cried out. "My ear!" It was fairly comical, and Kyle heard as Cartman began to laugh next to him. He glanced past Stan and Craig, and saw that Kenny was giggling at this too.

Kyle wanted to scream at him, 'Hey, bitch! Don't fucking laugh at my boyfriend!' But before he got the chance, Butters grabbed Kenny's arm and cried, "It's not funny! You gotta stop this, they're fighting!"

Kenny rolled his eyes and, still somewhat chuckling, laid a hand on Butters' shoulder. "It's funny, dude," he said merrily. "Believe me, this is hilarious."

"But they're gonna hurt each other," Butters moaned.

"That's love, dude," Kenny sighed. "Love hurts. The better you think it is, the more it hurts. I know you know what I mean."

Butters didn't answer. Or rather, he answered with a strangled sob, and covered his eyes, only to peek out between the cracks in his fingers.

"I will _fuck you up_!" Craig seethed, deflecting Stan's fists as he taunted.

Stan actually laughed. "How?" he asked. "You have decent enough moves, but no ability to _seal the deal_."

Craig's face reddened, making his forming bruises more visible, and he gritted his teeth. "I got there first!" he spat out, before actually spitting at Stan. Unfortunately, his attempt just sort of plopped down on the ground. "Just remember that, everywhere you go, I've been before."

This _really_ made Stan angry, so he grunted, and swung harder.

Next to Cartman, Kyle choked out a sob. "Butters is right!" he cried, tugging on the larger boy's jacket sleeve. "Dear god, why don't you _do_ something?"

With a small laugh, Cartman ripped his eyes away from the scuffle, and looked down at Kyle. "Whatever, dude," he said dismissively. "If you can't take it, go sit inside and wait it out for your mom to get here. This is what men _do_. They _fight_. If you were a _man_, you'd understand that. Get over it."

"Hey! I've fought you!"

"Yes," Cartman agreed. "And you resoundingly got your ass kicked."

"Well, how does that _not_ make me a man?" Kyle asked.

"I dunno. I guess maybe it just makes you a crappy man."

Deep inside, Kyle knew Cartman was right. With every punch either of them threw, his heart broke a little more. No one had even touched him, and he felt bruised, raw, defeated. The worst part was that he would not even be able to repay Stan's kindness, or Craig's. When Cartman had beaten him up, they had both been at the nurse's office, caring about him. But Kyle knew that they would both go home alone, bloody and hurting. Or perhaps Craig might have Kenny to soothe him, help him bandage something if it was too deep to leave open and vulnerable to infections, or even drive Craig to Hell's Pass if he needed something sewn up or set. But then Kenny would go to Christophe, and Craig would be alone.

Kyle's heart ached for Stan. Kyle was grounded, so grounded. He knew his mother would never let him go with Stan, stroke the soft discolored flesh of his wounds and tell him how strong and brave he was. They'd be apart all summer, or at least most of the summer. Maybe they could write letters. Did guys do that? Kyle never had. He didn't know. He watched Stan nervously teeter backward, too woozy to dodge Craig's punches. Kyle shut his eyes. He already missed Stan's arms around him, Stan's breath on his neck. It was going to be a long summer.

But when it was over, Kyle would go to Stan, and cling to him, and never let him go.

Kyle had waited so long. He knew he could wait a bit longer. He looked forward to the late-August evening when he could finally have Stan inside of him. It gave him something to focus on, to continue to yearn toward.

As Craig fell to the ground, scowling on his knees, Kyle hoped that during their final year of high school, maybe they would all sit at the same table.

* * *

Again, really, if you've read this from the beginning or are just seeing it come up on the site right now for the first time, thank you so much for reading. I'm sorry it took so long to complete, but I hope you guys do know that I always intended to finish it. I plan to complete everything.

Thanks again. It really means a lot.


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